finally processed the unimaginable horror of a second consecutive stanley cup win by the florida panthers. for those who may still be grieving, here’s some more hockey player!jason to ease the pain 💔
warnings: jason drops the gloves, mentions of blood, size kink 🧘♀️
★・・・★・・・★・・・★
hockey player!jason who takes his enforcer role seriously. maybe too seriously. he’s only just made it back on the ice after a penalty when a rookie on the opposing team decides to try his luck chirping; jason mostly ignores him, until the kid lets out a line that cuts through the noise of the arena. “hey, todd, y’think that little puck bunny of yours handles a stick better than you?”
hockey player!jason who doesn’t even let the smirk fade off the rookie’s face before he drops the gloves and starts swinging. teammates from both sides swarm to try and pry him off—no small feat when you’re dealing with one of the biggest players in the league. the crowd cheers wildly and the refs are yelling, but all jason can focus on is the bright red blood coating his knuckles as his fist splits the skin on the kid’s cheekbone.
hockey player!jason who sits out the rest of the game in the locker room after an immediate ejection and the promise of a chewing out by the coach and general manager later. he glares down at his bloodied and bandaged hand, and the bruises forming under the gauze, knowing they pale in comparison to the reaming he’s going to get for this. worth it.
hockey player!jason who won’t tell you what the kid did to piss him off like that as you lie in bed after the game, but swears he was justified while you examine his injuries. you meet his gaze, and his expression is nothing short of cocky. typical. “so…how’d he look?” he asks, a coy smirk on his lips. you know he loves this part. “awful,” you reply, feigning disapproval, “but he’ll live.”
hockey player!jason who goads you into recounting the fight, taking note of the way your cheeks flush as you detail the scene. “it took, like, six guys to get you off him,” you say, and he chuckles. there’s a pause as the air thickens between you, and you bite your lip. “I mean, it was…pretty hot.” his grin widens as your hand trails down his abdomen.
hockey player!jason who listens intently to you singing his praises, his green eyes dark with lust as your hand rubs his hardening cock over his boxers. “I forget how strong you are,” you coo sweetly, slipping your fingers under the waistband. he moans quietly as you stroke him, your pace measured despite struggling to fit him in your hand. “even in the gear you were, like, almost two feet taller than him, jay.”
hockey player!jason who has you straddling his lap before you can even begin explaining the aftermath of the fight, your panties lost somewhere in the bedsheets. you whine as you feel his thick cock split you in half, and his calloused hands guide your hips as he slowly bottoms out inside you, groaning at the feeling of your dripping cunt gripping him like a vice. “fuck, that’s my girl, hm?” he breathes, feeling your walls relaxing around his substantial size. his smile is arrogant despite his ragged voice. “nothin’ you can’t handle, right, ma?”
Summary: Three months into your relationship, your boyfriend Jason Todd finds your Red Hood poster. You're mortified. But Jason? Well, you've got his face in your room and your lips on his... truth be told, Jason maybe likes it a little too much that you're a super fan of his.
Pairing: Jason Todd x fem!reader
Word count: 5.4k
Warnings/tags: bf!jason, you find jason and RH hot and that crosses some wires. jason takes advantage of your crush (in a hot way), competency kink, cocky jason, identity porn, minor violence, motorcycles, reader has a crush on RH but doesn't know jason is RH so it's a little complicated but NO cheating!! implied sexual content but NO explicit smut.
divider
Tonight, you're staying at Jason's place. You've only been dating three months, but it's going well enough that you're comfortable enough to stay over. Jason has hinted more than once that you can leave clothes at his place, but you insist on keeping all of your stuff at your apartment, just in case things go south. What's that rule? Six months and you’ll know whether he’s the one? Three months to go, then.
Call you crazy, but you think you might already know. Jason is fantastic and you’re sure you’re in love with him. Not that you're going to tell him that any time soon. But you know enough not to put all of your stock into a three-month relationship. Who knows what secrets Jason Todd might be hiding.
"How come you never invite me to your place?" Jason asks as he pulls up in front of your building. He'd offered to drive you both to his apartment on his motorcycle, and it's officially weird if you refuse him. He might think you're hiding something. And you are. Something mortifying.
"Because you're gonna try to install your special security measures," you say as he locks his bike.
Jason thinks about it, then nods. "Yeah, that's probably true. No, but it's your place. I wouldn't do anything you wouldn't know about."
"I know," you say, going inside and holding the door for him. "But my apartment is smaller than yours.”
"That doesn't matter to me, baby."
When did he get it into his head that he needs to be in your apartment? You go up the stairs with Jason behind you, thinking about how you can excuse not inviting him inside. Except, it’s suspicious if you make him wait outside. Even for Jason, who's about as cagey as they come. He seems to trust you fine, but you have no idea what freak raised him because he's eternally wary of people and unfamiliar places. He also insists on sitting close to the door when you go out to eat. But even he's invited you to his place. Many times now. Maybe you can extend the same favor.
"Fine. You get a quick tour," you say against your better judgment as you get to your door, unlocking it.
"I'm honored, truly." Jason follows you inside. He clicks his tongue, pointing to the lock. "No deadbolt?"
"Jason..."
"I mean, what a beautiful lock on your door," he says sweetly, kissing your cheek. "Y'know what would make it even more beautiful?"
"You being less paranoid?"
"Seventy percent of Gotham break-ins are in residences that have only one lock. Sixty-five percent of them are on—"
You turn around and put your arms around Jason. He automatically puts his arms around your waist and stops talking. His beauty still stuns you: his aquiline nose, his freckles, those bright teal eyes. You get shy at times, flustered and delighted at the fact that this hunk of a man likes you so much.
"I'm extremely attracted to you, despite your raccoon demeanor," you say.
"You'd be the first," Jason says, gaze terribly fond. "I'll shut up now 'bout the statistics."
"No, statistics are hot. Just not when they're about home invasions."
"Point taken. How 'bout stats on Gotham's exports?"
You throw your head back, gasping. "Oh! You fiend. No more, please. I may just ravish you here on the floor!"
Jason bends you back a little, his hand fitting in the center of your back to ease you over. He doesn't do that very often, use his strength and wield you the way he wants, but when he does, you lose your breath. Your pulse quickens as Jason nuzzles your neck.
"This okay?" he asks. You hum an airy yes.
"'M in no rush," he says in your ear. "We can linger. Haven't finished your tour. 'S your room next?"
You straighten so fast, you nearly knock Jason in the teeth. It's only because of his quick reflexes that you don't.
"You can't see my room," you rush out, looking at him with wide eyes.
Jason squints, hands dropping to your sides. "What? Why?"
"Um... because... because my room is a mess."
"So? I don't care. My room looks like a solitary confinement cell."
You raise an eyebrow. Jason clears his throat.
"Well, I mean, it used to. It's better now that I have plants and shit."
"Lack of decor is nowhere near as embarrassing as my room, Jason. Mine is beyond messy. It's filled with half-eaten pizza crusts. And rats. And... slime?"
"Slime, huh? Well, good thing I wore my Doc Martens. I can withstand a little slime."
You sag. "You don't believe me."
Jason smiles and kisses your forehead. "Not particularly, baby. What's the issue, huh? You hiding nudie mags or something?"
You roll your eyes. "Who calls it that, Jay? You sound like Tony Soprano. Just say porn."
"Gracefully choosing to ignore that comment. Look, if y'do have porn, it's nothing to be ashamed of. You should feel safe to express and explore your sexuality however you—"
"Oh my God, it's not porn." You cover your face. "Jesus. It's—okay, just come in. If you're gonna break up with me over this, we might as well face it now."
"I'm not gonna break up with you," he says as you take his hand and lead him to your bedroom. "Nothing you show me could—"
You swing open the door Jason trails off as he follows you in, his eyes landing on your 4x6 poster of the Red Hood that's smack middle in the room, taped over your bed.
And then, obviously, one can't miss the Red Hood towel on your computer chair, or the Red Hood mug. And the limited edition Red Hood Bat Burger bobblehead, which was quickly discontinued after some public backlash.
"Wow," Jason says.
You groan and bury your face in your hands. "It's fine. I know it's weird. Just go."
You don’t know how it happened, this accumulation of Red Hood merch. It's not like people aren’t fans of heroes. Plenty of local heroes are revered across the world. You have an online friend from Brazil who has literally all of the Superman collectibles. But Superman is reasonable. Batman is reasonable. Nightwing is common and basically a Gotham staple—you've seen women in Nightwing bikinis.
But Red Hood fans are far and few. Plenty of people think he's a criminal and a borderline villain. Some people, working-class people mostly, adore him. You've heard plenty of wonderful things he's done to turn neighborhoods around, keep people safe, fight The Man. Hell, last week there was a video of him carrying an old woman to the hospital after she fell in the road.
Plus, you get the feeling he's really handsome under that helmet. You're sure he's physically overwhelming, at the very least. You've seen clips of him fighting. Oh boy, can he hold his own.
But if you told the average person on the street that your favorite hero is Red Hood, they'd definitely give you a side eye. You brace yourself for one now.
"Huh," Jason says. "Didn't think you'd be a fan of his. Not really a hero, is he?"
You huff, squaring your shoulders. "He's helped a lot of people. No one actually cares about protecting us except for vigilantes. Red Hood protects innocents. If that takes a little bit of a heavier hand, so be it."
Jason raises his eyebrows. "Didn't know you played fast with morality like that, honey."
"You don't agree?" If this is where your relationship ends, you'd rather it happen sooner than later. "He's implemented a lot of fundamental structures that even Batman hasn't. He's more big-picture than the Bats. So, whatever, okay? If you think I'm nutty for liking Red Hood, then just go now."
You cross your arms and turn away from Jason. It's quiet for a long moment. You're sure it's done; you've just ruined the first relationship you really wanted to make work. But you've been on dates and let it slip that you admire Hood, and plenty of men let you know what an idiot you are to do so. You thought Jason would understand. Maybe not.
But then you feel arms around your stomach. Jason kisses your cheek.
"C'mon," he says chidingly, voice low and sweet in your ear. "Y'think it's that easy to scare me off? We live in Gotham, sweetheart. The only way I'd be worried is if you had someone's head sitting in your fridge. And even then, I'd hear ya out on whose head it is."
You lean into Jason's solid warmth, rubbing your cheek against his scruff like a cat. "I'd have my reasons if I did that."
"Mm, I know it."
You slip out of his grip enough to turn around. Jason's got a coy, little grin on, and you can't figure out why. But you suppose that's better than him leaving because of your local celebrity crush.
"You're really not annoyed?" you ask. "Because if you are, we should hash it out now."
"No, baby, 'm not annoyed." Jason glances at the Red Hood bobblehead. His grin widens, tongue resting between his teeth as he looks at you. You feel hunted, but the glint in Jason’s eye quickly disappears. "I think he does what needs to be done."
"Yeah?"
"Sure. Just surprised, is all. He doesn't seem like your type."
You blink, heart beating faster. "My type? Well, I-I just think he contributes a lot to the city. It's not... I appreciate what he does for Gotham."
"Wait." He tilts his head like he's genuinely trying to figure something out. "D'you have a crush on Hood or something?"
You blink, flustered at how quickly Jason picked up on that. How does he do that? "I don't—I mean, I admire him—he's—but I don't even know what he looks like, so—"
Jason's eyes light up, and you know you've made a mistake, just not the one you thought you would. He cups the back of your neck, which always makes you hot and squirmy.
"Oh, you do like him like that. Huh. Didn't know the helmet did it for you. Very interesting news, sweetheart. He doesn't scare ya?"
"No," you say, the word coming out weak. Wires are being crossed in your head between the image of the Red Hood and your boyfriend crowding you in your room and pressing his lips to your neck.
"That's very good to hear," Jason says, and you give in, tugging him over to your bed. He laughs. "Why didn't you want me to know?"
"It's embarrassing," you whine. "The poster was from a friend."
You let Jason climb atop you, permeating your senses with his bulk and his citrusy scent. He carefully keeps his weight off of you, but you wish he'd hold you down. This is exactly why you didn't want to bring Jason over; you don't need your old fantasies of Red Hood getting mixed up with your boyfriend.
"I don't think it's embarrassing," he says, gently taking your leg and crooking it over his hip. "You picturing him right now?"
"Jason!" You thwack his shoulder. You feel it more than he does, probably. He cackles.
"Teasin'," he says, soothing you with a kiss. "But I can get a helmet if you want me to."
You kick him off the bed. "No more tours for you!"
Work runs late a week later, so you're still out by the time eight o'clock rolls around. It's summer time, so it's not the worst thing ever, but you know what Jason would say. Your last message is still unread because Jason works most nights. You’ve chosen not to worry him by telling him you're also working tonight, instead texting him funny Gotham memes.
"Evening."
…Maybe you should've let him know.
You flinch, the voice startling you hard. Red Hood is leaning against the fence surrounding the park you pass by on your way to the bus stop. His arms are crossed, and his biceps bulge underneath his tight black t-shirt. You can't tell from here, but you're sure he must tower over you.
"Oh." Briefly, you wonder if you summoned him somehow after revealing your room to Jason last week. You've lived in Gotham your whole life and you've never run into Hood. The only vigilante you've met is Red Robin, and he's not a talker.
"Hi," you say, a little nervous, a little starstruck.
"Hi," Hood says, letting his arms drop. His posture is easy, but you know better. You know he's here for a reason. "Working tonight?"
You nod. "I just finished. I'm just going to the bus now."
"Pretty late for the bus."
"It's June."
"It's Gotham."
You open your mouth, then close it. Then you open it again. "Um... it's okay. I've done it plenty of times before."
"Plenty of times? Without letting anyone know?"
You wince. "Well, not plenty—"
"Nobody to pick you up?"
You shrug. "No."
"No? Think hard." There's the tiniest edge to his tone.
"I mean, my boyfriend could, hypothetically, but he works nights, so—"
"And you think his job is more important than making sure you're safe? It'd devastate him if something happened to you."
You blink. "I don't—I guess I didn't think of it that way."
Hood shakes his head. Then he pushes himself off of the fence and approaches you. Immediately, your heart rate increases. To be this close to the Red Hood, to have him worry about little old you, scold you for not calling Jason, it's causing a confusing mix of emotions to swirl inside you.
You've thought about how you'd act if you met Red Hood. Maybe ask for an autograph if the opportunity arises. You can't fathom asking him for anything now. He's intimidating. Maybe you are a little afraid, but it's intertwined with other feelings.
You can't see his face but you feel like he doesn't believe you. "Sure?"
You wonder if he can see all of your vitals. Can he see how warm you feel? "Yes, I'm sure. It's just... I'm sort of a fan of you. So it's... it's an experience."
Hood laughs. "Fan? Don't think I have any fans."
You shake your head. "That's not true. I know a few people who like you."
He hums and approaches you slowly. You let him until he's close enough for you to take in his physicality completely. He's a couple inches taller than Jason. Not that it matters. Just an observation.
"'M flattered," he says softly. "But if you're jus' sayin' that 'cause you're a little scared, please don't."
"No, I'm not scared. I trust you, Red Hood."
He folds his arms, stretching his neck to his right shoulder. You catch a sliver of tanned, scarred skin. "So soon?"
"Uh-huh."
"Kinda crazy of ya."
You shrug. "Maybe."
"Hmm. We goin' home?"
"You want to take me home?" you ask, eyes wide.
"Not-not like that. I mean, I can't let ya go home alone."
"No, I know, I just... I didn't think Red Hood made home visits."
"Sometimes." He makes an aborted gesture to touch your cheek with his finger and you swallow hard. Your ears are very hot. You might choke on your spit.
"I didn't know Red Hood would care that much if I went home."
"'Course I do," he says softly. "Your safety is my priority."
"My-?"
"Civilians, I mean," Hood says quickly. "'S why I'm out here patrolling."
"But surely there's people who need you more than me. I'm just some nobody going home from work, I—"
"You're not a nobody. Don't say that," Hood says with so much force, it renders you silent. "Got it?"
You nod. "Okay. Sorry."
"Nothing to be sorry 'bout. C'mon, I'll take you home, okay?"
You really don't want to bother Jason at this hour. Besides, as far as vigilante escorts go, Hood really isn't the worst choice. Another person might be afraid. A sane person would refuse.
"Yes, I'm okay with that," you say, smiling. "Thank you."
"Sure. My bike is parked down the block."
He walks a little behind you, close enough for you to turn and talk to him, but angled so that nothing can sneak up on you. It's the way Jason walks with you sometimes. You wonder if it's a Gotham thing.
Hood's bike is a cherry red. He lets you type in your address into his GPS. Then he gives you a helmet.
"Safety first," he says. It's the same helmet that Jason wears for his motorcycle. For a second, you swear you can smell his aftershave. Orange blossoms.
Hood gestures for you to get on. He holds the bike steady and it seems like he's going to hold your back to help you onto the bike. But he doesn't touch you, not like Jason does.
"Ever been on a bike before?" he asks when you're on.
"My boyfriend's."
He hums, throwing a leg over and straddling the bike. You blink at the sudden wall of bulk in front of you. "He treat you right, that boyfriend?"
You nod. "He's amazing. I love him."
Hood is silent for a moment, then he clears his throat. "Good. Lady like you deserves to be treated like a princess."
You laugh. "You barely know me. I'm no princess."
"I got a good sense about people. Hold onto me."
You wrap your arms around his waist. He tuts at you.
"Gotta hold me tighter than that. Don't want you flying off. You know better."
You tighten your hold, flustered and speechless. Hood pats your hand.
"There we go. Good listener," he says. "Everything okay back there? You're quiet."
For a second, it sounds like he's teasing you, and your stomach jumps like when Jason teases you. But the Red Hood isn't playful like that, right?
"I'm okay," you say.
"Nervous?"
You shake your head. "No."
"No? Glad you've got so much faith in me."
"I do."
Hood turns on his bike, revving the engine. You squeeze him tighter as he flicks the kickstand up with his foot, pushing off and balancing. He does so effortlessly. Wow.
Hood gets you home quickly. He follows all the traffic laws and doesn't speed. He drives efficiently, like Jason, but he takes it slow on the leans... like Jason. Maybe he can feel how you get nervous on motorcycles.
"This is it?" he asks, slowing down next to your building.
"Yes. Thank you." You wait as Hood stops and gets off first, then helps you off. You take his gloved hand, and he helps you off like it's nothing, bearing most of your weight.
"No more secretly working nights," he tells you. "I'll know."
You don't question it. "Okay. I won't."
"Good. Have a good night."
He starts to mount his bike. You step off the curb, in front of him. Hood stops.
"What's up?" he asks, nodding at you. He addresses you so casually... so familiar.
"Um, I was... do you mind if I ask for your autograph?"
Hood looks at you for a long moment. You lose your nerve and turn around.
"Never mind! Sorry. Good night."
"Hang on."
You turn around. Hood beckons you over with two fingers. You go, eyes widening as he takes off his gloves. He gives them to you. You catch a glimpse of more scars and maybe a silver ring. Jason sometimes wears a silver chain around his neck. It dangles over you when he’s—
"Oh no! Oh my God, you don't have to—"
"Got a bunch." It sounds like he's smiling. "Always nice to meet a fan. Any trouble with that boyfriend, let me know."
You're not sure if you respond, you're so dazed. Hood pulls away from the curb like a bat out of hell, waving at you as he goes.
You're already in bed by the time Jason comes home from work. He comes home earlier than usual, and you're still awake when he crawls into your bed next to you. You've taken down the Red Hood poster, too embarrassed from last week. Jason insists he's going to get you an even bigger poster. You beg him not to.
"How'd you know I was at my place?" you ask, yawning.
"My apartment alarm didn't report anybody entering."
"Still think it's weird that you track who enters your apartment," you say.
"Safety first. You usually don't go to your place unless you're coming home from work. You wouldn't happen to have worked a shift tonight without telling me, would you?"
"Okay, yes, but please don't be mad. I didn't take the bus." You pause before finishing. "Red Hood actually gave me a ride home tonight."
You reach sleepily for Jason's arm. He tucks himself into place behind you, wrapping an arm and a leg around you. He smells like your shampoo.
"Yeah, don't think we aren't done with the conversation about you taking the bus home at night, by the way. Red Hood, huh? Should I be doubly worried then?"
You roll your eyes. "Not on my part. But I was definitely getting a vibe."
"A vibe? Red Hood's got the hots for my girl?"
Jason slips a hand under your shirt to rest on your stomach. He always runs a little cool and it feels good on warm nights like tonight. He doesn't mean anything by it, but desire creeps onto you, slow and thick. You think of the gloves in your dresser.
"It kinda felt like that," you say, a little embarrassed to even admit it. "He, uh, gave me his gloves."
"His gloves?" Jason sounds sleepy. "That's basically a proposal."
You'd never cheat on Jason, obviously, but you've had a crush on the Red Hood since he came to Gotham. Riding on his motorcycle tonight was exhilarating, to say the least. Still, you don't want this to be a thing. Another guy would probably get upset.
But Jason's tone doesn't change. He's still sleepy and peaceful. "'M not. Might have to kick his ass, though."
You laugh at the thought. Jason kneads the soft fat of your stomach. "Something funny?" he asks. "Y'think I can't take him?"
"I know you could," you say, and you mean it, even though you're not sure how well your boyfriend can dodge bullets. "But, I mean, you're too nice for him, Jay. Hood fights dirty when he needs to. You fight fair."
"Wow. So you don't think I could beat Red Hood in a fight. Way to bruise a man's ego, baby." Jason buries his face in the back of your neck in retaliation. You squeal at the tickles.
"I didn't say that!" you say, giggling. "It's a compliment. You're too nice to scrap with him. Ah! Jason, mercy, mercy!"
"So you're saying he's mean?" Jason asks, showing mercy and easing off. He returns to just holding you, leg over yours.
"Not... not to civilians. Not to me. He's just a little rough overall, I think. But he seemed nice."
"Oh my God, you loved it," Jason says, no longer sounding so sleepy. "You loved being on his bike. You loved him being a little rough. This was a dream come true."
"No! No, Jason, it wasn't like that."
"You got the hots for Hood," he sing-songs. "Hood hots, Hood hots!"
"I don't, I don't," you say, shoving your face into your pillow. "Stop. You know you're the only one for me."
Jason hums, pushing himself up so he's on top of you without putting his weight on you. He pets your hip. "Yeah, baby, I know. Don't worry. Not mad. I think it's cute. You got a little flustered around him. No biggie. I trust ya."
You sigh, turning your face to the side. "He was professional."
Jason snorts. "Yeah, he better have been. Pretty lady like you holding onto him."
"I'm sure he helps way prettier ladies in a night," you mumble.
Jason easily rolls you over, so you're facing each other. He tucks you into his chest, an arm and a leg returning to their places around you.
"I seriously doubt it," he says. You can feel his voice vibrate through his chest. "Everyone knows you're the prettiest princess in Gotham, baby."
You hesitate, thinking about Hood. "Princess?"
"Yeah. That okay?"
"Oh. Yeah, that's fine."
Jason makes a noise like he knows something you don't.
Every so often, you really hate living in Gotham. It's usually around a time like this: Scarecrow has broken out of Arkham, and he's causing serious damage. Everyone has been warned to stay inside, and the sky is hazy with fear gas.
You're mostly worried about Jason. He went out a few hours ago and he hasn't texted you since. You asked where he was and called him a dozen times but he didn't respond. You're freaking out.
You're about to go out and look for him, Scarecrow be damned, when suddenly Red Hood is on the balcony of your boyfriend's apartment. How did he avoid tripping the alarm? You go to open the window but he opens it himself.
Shit. Is Hood breaking into Jason's apartment? Who the hell do you call in this situation?
"Hey," he says, voice tight. "Get your bag. We gotta go. Scarecrow and Ivy teamed up and it's bad."
"What? Okay. Oh my God." You jump into action, running into Jason's room to get your stuff. You come back, about to climb out the window, but you stop. He waves you over urgently. You shake your head and take a step back.
"No, I can't go without Jason," you say. "He was supposed to be back by now. What if he's gassed? He hasn't called me."
Hood fidgets, his whole body restless. He looks around, then looks back at you. "I'm sure he's fine. You can call him again when you're—"
"No," you say, staring those glowing white eyes down. "I don't care what authority you might hold, Hood. I'm not leaving Jason. He might come back here and he'll worry if I'm not here. I was going to go look for him."
"Don't do that," he says firmly. "Jesus." He looks at you, rolls his shoulders, then sighs. He shakes his head and grabs his helmet.
"Fuck," he says. "Fuck, I didn't wanna do it this way. Shit. Okay."
The latches of his helmet click. And suddenly you have your boyfriend in front of you, dressed like the Red Hood. He drops his helmet on the floor.
Your mouth falls open. "Wh—Jason? What? Are you–you were him the whole time? Are you fucking ser—"
"I know, I'm sorry." He takes your hands. "I'm sorry, honey. I wasn't gonna tell you this way but you're so stubborn, worrying about me and shit. I promise you can yell at me as much as you want after. You can throw stuff, hit me, break up with me, anything you want, just—"
You squeeze his hands. Jason stops his senseless ramble.
"I would never do any of those things," you say. "You don't know me at all if you think I would, Jay. I'm just, y'know, caught off-guard. Apparently, I've had a crush on my boyfriend since he before he became my boyfriend."
He cracks a smile. You roll your eyes.
"And you've been a smug asshole about it this whole time!"
"Kinda," he admits, looking away, and you see how pleased he's been about the whole thing. "I'll make it up to ya."
"Yeah, you better. Where are we going?"
Jason's shoulders slump with relief. You see it in his eyes too.
"You'll go with me?"
"Always," you say.
He takes his helmet, shifting from your boyfriend back to Red Hood. Wow. "Okay. Down the fire escape. We're taking my bike."
Jason puts his helmet back on. You follow him down the fire escape and to where his—Hood's—bike is parked.
"Your bike, huh?" you ask.
"My other bike."
"Uh-huh."
Hood gives you a rebreather and you take off, headed toward the Diamond District. He goes down a ramp and through some pretty fancy gates. Where...?
Concrete walls slide open and Jason pulls into what looks like a lair. Holy shit. He helps you off and you take off your helmet, staring up at a cave ceiling that seems to go on forever.
"Hood," someone growls, startling your gaze back down. Batman is glaring at you. "Why is there a civilian here?"
Jason takes off his helmet. "Yeah, so, this is my girlfriend. She's staying here, and if you try to kick her out, I'm gonna blow up the Batmobile. Cool? Cool."
"Since when do you have a girlf—" begins Red Robin.
"No questions," Jason snaps. "Not one word. Be nice to her or I'll kill you all."
You gasp. Jason turns to you, pulling you closer.
"No, sorry, I wouldn't do that. No deaths. They would recover from my maiming," he says to you, petting your shoulder.
"Not better," you hiss.
He shrugs, smiling. "'M a man of habit. Gonna try to change me now?" He kisses your cheek and you melt like you always do under his affection. Jason leans in and whispers the last part: "You could. I'd let ya."
"Wow," says Spoiler. Is the entire Gotham vigilante taskforce here? "So it's true what they say about married life."
"We aren't married," you say, confused. Jason grunts in annoyance, cradling the small of your back.
"With how he's acting? You might as well be," she says.
"This is so awesome," Nightwing says, full of glee. "Oh, you'll never hear the end of this, Jason."
"Listen, Dickbag—"
"Focus," Batman says. "She can't be here. Take her upstairs and come right back."
Jason rolls his eyes. "Sure, fine. C'mon, baby."
Robin is glaring at you, which kind of makes you want to throw up. But then Black Bat and Spoiler wave at you, and that makes you feel better. You wave back.
"Batman's really mad," you say as Jason leads you upstairs.
"Yeah, that's his default setting. He's been mad for about twenty-five years. He'll get over it. You're gonna meet Alfred next. He's the best."
"Alfred?"
You get to the top of the stairs and step into what looks like a mansion. Wait a minute. You've seen this mansion before. In a magazine...
"Is this Wayne Manor? What the hell, Jason? Am I meeting the Queen of Denmark next?"
"Again, not how I wanted you to find out," he says.
"I'm–I'm not dressed to be in Wayne Manor!"
"Bruce dresses up as a bat every night. Rest assured that you are the most normal person in this house, and none of those freaks downstairs can ever take that away from you."
You frown. "Still..."
"Don't y'trust me?" Jason asks, tapping under your chin. He towers over you, and now you notice that his Red Hood boots are taller than his normal ones. Clever.
"Yeah, I trust you, but—" You stop as Jason herds you against the wall, helmet dangling from his hand. He looks very official with his guns and armored clothing. His black cargo pants are pulled taut around his thighs, outlining how thick they are. It's just now occurring to you how deadly competent your boyfriend is, now that you've learned that the Red Hood was never that far away. Maybe you should be scared but, well, the wires were crossed a while ago.
"I didn't even suspect anything," you say, blinking at him. "You had me completely."
Jason shrugs, eyes half-lidded. You're not mad. He knows it. "Made sure you wouldn't find out. Wanted to find the right time, see how you felt about Hood. And then imagine my surprise when I learn that you've got his face on your wall, and his gloves in your dresser."
"You liked it," you say, lifting your chin, challenging.
Jason leans in, cupping the back of your neck, lips going to your ear. He wedges a knee between yours. "How could I not? You're so pretty, so nice t'me. Y'like me that much? Want me even like that? Tellin' Hood you love me, God—"
Something beeps, loud and shrill, and you jump. Jason just sighs exasperatedly, pulling out his phone and denying the alert.
"You have to go," you say, suddenly guilty you've kept Jason for so long.
"I—" Jason grimaces. "Yeah. I'll be back. We're not done."
You bite the inside of your lip. "I hope not."
Jason kisses you, hot and hard, and then he seems to steel himself, shifting into whatever Gotham needs him to be. He puts his helmet on and brushes your cheek, then disappears down the stairs to the Cave. You lean against the wall, catching your breath.
The city knew him as Red Hood. To his brothers, he was the snarky, trigger-happy one. To Bruce, a question mark with a temper. But every Tuesday and Thursday, in a tidy, sun-filled classroom, he was something else entirely:
Mr. Jay.
He taught third grade English Lit. Paperbacks. Book fairs. Glitter-covered essays. Small chairs. Lots of stickers.
And somehow? He loved it.
Jason never expected to find peace in a room full of tiny, chaotic humans, but here he was—"Mister Jay" to twenty-four third-graders at Gotham Academy’s lower school, reading Charlotte’s Web with more expression than he thought humanly possible.
He wore cardigans now. He drank peppermint tea. He even had a bulletin board labeled "Our Word Wall."
And he hadn’t told a soul in his family
Not because he was ashamed—he actually liked it. He liked the simplicity, the structure, the way little Brian Jennings waved at him with both hands every morning and offered him a friendship bracelet made of rainbow rubber bands. He liked the chaos he could understand for once.
“Okay, who can tell me what the monster in Where the Wild Things Are really represents?”
Rory’s hand shot up first—Rory with wild curls, a constant sprinkle of glitter on her cheeks, and a reading level two grades above her age.
Jason grinned. “Hit me, Rory.”
“His FEELINGS. Because Max was MAD and monsters are mad feelings!”
“You nailed it.” Jason gave her a fist bump. “A plus level insight. Someone write that down.”
Rory beamed like she’d just won an Oscar.
It started during the fall parent-teacher conference, when you arrived ten minutes late, breathless and apologetic, your daughter’s glitter-covered backpack slung over your shoulder.
Jason took one look at you—coffee-stained shirt, wild bun, tired eyes and soft voice—and immediately short-circuited.
“Sorry—my car wouldn’t start, and then I had to stop Rory from feeding goldfish crackers to a raccoon.”
Jason blinked. Smiled. “Sounds like a Tuesday.”
“Sorry again,” you huffed, taking a seat. “I’ve had a long day.”
He blinked. “No problem. Uh, Rory’s doing great.”
You sighed in relief. “She talks about you all the time. Mr. Jay says this, Mr. Jay says that. I was starting to think she liked you more than me.”
Jason laughed—and it was a real one, the kind that crept into his ribs and stayed. “Don’t worry, she just likes that I let them write haikus about dragons.”
“Haikus?”
“Very serious educational practice.”
You smiled. Something clicked into place.
It started slow. A cup of coffee after conferences. A chat outside after school pickup. Then, one Saturday, he ran into you and Rory at the Gotham public library. Rory sprinted into his legs, squealing “MISTER JAY!!!” loud enough to startle nearby birds.
That day ended with the three of you at a bakery. Rory passed out with a cookie in her hand. You gave him a look—surprised, amused, softened—and said, “She’s never warmed up to someone like this.”
Jason didn’t say anything. Just wrapped Rory’s scarf tighter and said, “She’s a good kid.”
What he meant was: I’d do anything to keep her happy.
Jason fell hard. Harder than he’d fallen in years. He kept it quiet at first, didn’t want to spook you with his baggage, didn’t want Bruce to send a drone overhead and “investigate” why his second-oldest son was skipping crime fighting for PTA meetings.
He just wanted this one thing for himself.
And somehow, it worked.
You dated quietly. Rory loved him instantly. He helped her with spelling words and listened to her detailed theories about dragons living in Gotham’s sewer systems. He fixed your heater when it broke and always remembered your favorite snacks.
By the time spring rolled around, he was yours, completely.
Jason was...gone. Just absolutely a goner. He’d found a rhythm in the chaos—dinner with you, homework with Rory, bedtime stories, and night patrol. It was weird and messy and full of glitter.
And it was home.
He was there when Rory lost her first tooth. When she scraped her knee on the playground and insisted only Mister Jay could clean it. When she had a nightmare and called him, not you, because "Daddy Jay fights monsters."
He didn’t correct her. Not once.
You saw it—how she clung to him, how he always bent to her level, how she crawled into his lap like it was the safest place on earth.
You asked him once, “You sure you’re okay with this?”
Jason kissed your forehead. “She’s my kid, too. Blood or not.”
So when you had an emergency work trip and your usual babysitter canceled, you didn’t even hesitate.
“You sure you don’t mind watching her overnight?” you asked, handing him a list of instructions and emergency contacts longer than a novel.
“Go save the world, I have this covered.”
You kissed his cheek, hugged Rory tight, and left.
“Alright,” Jason turned to her. “Movie or fort?”
Rory’s eyes sparkled. “BOTH.”
Jason kissed your cheek. “She’s my favorite kid. We’re going to build a pillow fort and eat suspicious amounts of mac and cheese. Go save the day.”
What neither of you accounted for... was Bruce Wayne.
Two hours later, the living room was a pillow apocalypse. Jason wore a glitter crown and had his nails painted purple. Rory was asleep, snuggled in his hoodie, soft snores muffled under a blanket castle.
It started at 6:37 p.m., when Bruce—who was supposed to be on a League mission—showed up at Jason’s apartment.
The door creaked open.
Jason glanced up.
And froze.
Bruce Wayne stood in the doorway.
“I need to talk to you about the armory in Blüdhaven,” Bruce said, standing in the doorway like the world’s most dramatic bat.
“Uh.” Jason didn’t move. “Hey.”
Bruce’s eyes flicked to the bright pink tiara sitting crookedly on his hair. The glitter smearing his cheeks. The empty sippy cup peeking out of his pocket.
Jason, his Jason, was wearing a pink apron that said “Kiss the Cook” and holding a bowl of glitter slime, staring at him dumbfounded. “Now?”
Then Rory ran into the room with a towel-cape tied around her shoulders. “JAY. THE UNICORN IS UNDER ATTACK.”
She froze when she saw Bruce.
Bruce froze when he saw her.
There was a long, loaded silence.
Jason opened his mouth.
Bruce narrowed his eyes. “...Is there something you want to tell me?”
Rory looked up at Jason and whispered, “Is that Batman?”
Jason sighed. “Yeah, that’s Batman.”
“COOL,” she whispered loudly.
“She looks like you,” Bruce said.
“WHAT?!”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Tell you WHAT?!”
“That you have a child.”
“She’s not—! I mean—! I’m babysitting!”
Bruce narrowed his eyes.
“I’m serious! She’s not mine!”
A pause. Then a tiny voice mumbled, “Daddy Jay?”
Jason died.
Bruce looked like he had transcended.
“She calls you—”
“She’s SIX and I READ TO HER. It’s a TITLE OF AFFECTION, not a PATERNITY CLAIM!”
“She has your nose.”
Jason screamed, his arms wildly flailing. “She has a BUTTON NOSE!”
Bruce just stated “I expect pictures at Christmas.”
Rory interrupted cheerfully, “He’s dating my mom!”
Bruce looked like he aged ten years in one second.
“...You’re dating a civilian... with a child… and didn’t tell me?”
“She’s not mine!” Jason repeated, clutching the slime bowl like a lifeline. “I’m just babysitting!”
Rory handed Bruce a plastic tiara. “Do you want to be the princess or the dragon?”
Bruce stared at it. Then at Jason.
Jason shrugged helplessly.
Bruce sighed. “Dragon.”
When you came back the next morning, you were greeted by a sight you would never forget:
Jason, asleep on the couch, Rory curled up beside him like a cat. The apartment was a war zone of glitter, tiaras, and cookie crumbs.
And Bruce Wayne, sitting in a tiny plastic chair at Rory’s tea table, wearing a paper crown and reading a bedtime story.
He looked up at you. “She made me tea.”
You blinked. “Is it real tea?”
“No. It’s glue and glitter water.”
“Ah.”
“She named me Sparkle Dragon.”
You smiled. “Fitting. What happened?”
“Your kid called me Daddy Jay. In front of Bruce.”
You blinked. “Okay. And?”
“He thinks she’s my biological daughter.”
“... Did you correct him?”
Jason stared at you. “She said I have her nose. Bruce believed her.”
You covered your mouth to hide your laugh. “Well... she has told people you’re her ‘real’ dad since February.”
Jason groaned into his hands.
You kissed the top of his head. “It’s okay. Honestly... I don’t mind. You are kind of her dad.”
Jason looked up.
You met his eyes. “You show up. You care. You paint her nails and make dragon haikus and fight the blender when she wants smoothies. That’s more than biology.”
Jason’s chest tightened. Then softened.
“I love you,” he whispered.
You smiled. “Love you more”
Jason opened one eye. “Tell me you brought coffee.”
You laughed. “Only if you tell me why Batman is babysitting my child.”
☆ HEADCANON : When You Give Them the Cold Shoulder.
☆ CHARACTERS : Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Damian Wayne, Male Barbara Gordon, Male Stephanie Brown, Male Cassandra Cain, Terry McGinnis.
☆ NOTES : English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!
— BRUCE WAYNE ⋆
Bruce doesn’t do well with emotional games—he’s a man of logic, deduction, and shadows. So when you stop talking to him, no good morning kiss, no sarcastic remark about the news over coffee, no goodbye as he leaves for a mission—you can feel the shift.
He notices instantly.
He doesn’t say anything at first. That’s the terrifying part. He just looks at you. Like he’s dissecting you. Like you’re a crime scene.
“Something wrong?” he asks, voice even, mask already half on.
You shrug and walk away.
Bruce is bothered, but he doesn’t chase. Not yet. He waits, watches. You don’t text him that night. You don’t check in. You leave the mansion before he wakes up.
By day three, you find your favorite flowers at your doorstep. A small envelope. His handwriting:
“I’m not good at this. But I care. Whatever I did—talk to me.”
He doesn’t beg. Bruce doesn’t beg. But his apology is in the way the manor seems colder without him trying to sit beside you. It’s in the quiet presence at the edge of your room, waiting for you to just look at him.
When you finally crack, he just opens his arms and says quietly, “Next time… yell at me. Don’t shut me out. I can’t fix what I don’t see.”
— DICK GRAYSON ⋆
Dick panics the second he realizes you’re giving him the cold shoulder. You’re usually so warm, so expressive—and now you’re cold? Quiet? Passive-aggressively sipping your drink and not laughing at his dumb joke?
He’s spiraling.
“Wait, what’d I do? Babe—babe, I know that look. That’s the ‘you’re dead to me’ look—what’d I do?”
You don’t answer.
He physically follows you around the apartment like a lost puppy. Tries to “accidentally” run into you in the kitchen. Holds up his phone like:
“Look. This meme? That I sent? You didn’t even react. You always react.”
By the end of the day, he’s crawling into bed beside you like a kicked dog, poking your shoulder.
“Listen. I know I messed up. I probably messed up bad. Just tell me, okay? I’ll make it up to you. Dinner, flowers, matching onesies, whatever you want. Please just talk to me again—I’m going crazy over here.”
Dick’s the kind of guy who feels the silence like a scream. He doesn’t stop until you finally crack and yell at him—and he just sighs in relief. “Thank God. You’re talking. Yell at me all you want, babe, just talk.”
— JASON TODD ⋆
Jason is... not the most emotionally mature guy in the room. So when you go quiet on him? He clocks it right away.
His first instinct is: “The hell is her problem?”
His second: “What did I do?”
His third: “…Okay, fine. Two can play that game.”
So now it’s a Cold War.
You ignore him? He ignores you harder. You roll your eyes? He scoffs. You sleep with your back to him? He “accidentally” hogs the blanket.
But here’s the thing: Jason’s bluffing. He’s miserable. He’s sitting on the fire escape chain-smoking because he’s too stubborn to just apologize first. He types out ten different “hey princess…” texts and deletes them all.
When you finally call him out—maybe you explode, maybe you just break down and say why you’re mad—Jason goes quiet. Real quiet.
Then he sighs. Pulls you into a hug.
“…I’m sorry, okay?” he mumbles into your hair. “I’m not good at the soft shit. But I love you. Don’t shut me out like that. It makes me… fuckin’ mad.”
Next time? He apologizes faster. Still grumpy about it. But faster.
— DAMIAN WAYNE ⋆
Damian refuses to acknowledge the cold shoulder at first.
You ignore him? Fine. He acts like he doesn’t care.
You roll your eyes? “Tt.”
You don’t respond to his usual sarcastic quips? “Clearly you’ve lost your sense of humor.”
But after a day or two? The cracks show.
He brings you your favorite tea and doesn’t say anything about it. Sits in your space and watches you out of the corner of his eye like a stray cat too proud to beg for food.
By day three, he’s visibly tense. The only sign of his growing unease is the way he overworks in the training room and snaps at everyone else.
Finally, he corners you. Not aggressively—but intensely. Arms crossed, lips thin, standing in your doorway like an angry little kitten.
“What did I do?” he asks, voice flat. “You’re angry. I can tell.”
He’s blunt. He doesn’t beg. But there’s a desperation in the way he hovers. When you finally tell him what hurt you, his jaw clenches. His apology is awkward but sincere.
“…I did not intend to hurt you. That was not my aim. But I apologize nonetheless.”
And then, softer: “Please don’t shut me out again. It’s… difficult to function when you are upset with me.”
Damian shows love through action. So after that? He acts. Flowers from your favorite place in the city. A sketch of you he drew at 3 a.m. A stubborn but heartfelt vow to “do better.”
Even if he still tts.
— BARRY GORDON ⋆
Barry is used to being in control—so when you go silent on him, it throws him hard.
He notices right away. And at first? He’s cocky. Teasing.
“Oh, we’re mad? What, you jealous of Supergirl again?”
You glare.
“…That was a joke.”
But when you don’t laugh—or worse, don’t even look at him—Barry starts pacing. Literally.
He’ll spend all night analyzing the conversation that led to this.
“Was it the mission? Did I interrupt you? Did I mansplain something again? God, I did, didn’t I?”
He’ll call. Text. Show up at your window. Tap the glass like a wet cat.
When you finally let him in, he talks a mile a minute.
“Okay, okay, I know I’m a jackass. I was being flirty at the gala, but that was just protocol! Diplomacy, babe! I love you!”
If you stay cold even then, he’ll finally drop the charm. Get real quiet.
“…Just tell me how to fix it. Please. I’ll do anything. Even sit through Titanic again.”
You do not want to know how fast he hugs you once you cave. Barry loves loud, but he hurts quiet.
— STEPHEN BROWN ⋆
Stephen is devastated.
He thrives off your attention. Your warmth. Your laughter. So when you suddenly go cold on him, he spirals.
First step: Denial.
“Ha ha… you’re just messing with me, right?”
You aren’t.
Second step: Drama.
“Okay, okay, is this about the glitter incident? Because in my defense, I thought it was washable—”
Still silence.
Third step: Crybaby.
He lays on the floor. Arm draped over his face.
“God is punishing me.”
Stephen texts you like:
💔
why have u forsaken me
[voice memo of him singing “All By Myself” into a fan]
Eventually, though, the jokes fade. He gets quiet. You find him on the fire escape, legs dangling, hoodie over his head.
“…I hate this,” he mutters when you finally approach. “Not knowing what I did. Not being able to fix it. You not… being you with me.”
He sniffs, trying to play it off.
“I know I’m a dumbass sometimes. But I swear I love you. Like, a lot. Like, "I’d let you kick me" love you.”
Once you forgive him? He clings.
“Never do that again,” he whispers into your neck. “Cold Shoulder You is my least favorite version.”
Also, you catch him journaling later:
“Today I almost died. Emotionally. Y/n was mad. But I survived. Barely.”
— CASSIAN CAIN ⋆
“…”
He doesn’t know what to do.
Cassian isn’t just a man of few words. He’s a man of zero words when it comes to emotional conflict.
So when you go cold—when your body shifts slightly away, when your eyes don’t meet his—he notices immediately.
It hits him like a blow. He feels it in the air.
And he panics. Internally. But outside, he’s just still.
He brings you small things. Your favorite candy on the counter. A neatly folded blanket on your side of the couch. No words. Just… presence.
He’ll sit nearby but not touch you. He doesn’t know if he’s allowed.
Eventually, he hands you a note. Folded. With his childish, naive handwriting:
“I did not mean to hurt you. Please tell me how to fix it.”
When you do finally speak, even if it’s angry or tearful or sharp—he listens. Soaks it in. His head bowed, his expression focused, like every syllable is precious.
He doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t justify. Just nods with teary eyes.
And later that night, he says it for real. Quiet. Low.
“…sorry.”
Cassian doesn’t need words to show he loves you—but when he does speak, he means it with his entire soul.
— TERRY MCGINNIS ⋆
Terry’s first thought when you start giving him the cold shoulder is: “Oh god. Not again.”
Because Terry? He’s used to things going wrong. He’s used to messing things up. He has that subconscious fear that everything good in his life is temporary, especially you.
So when you stop responding to his texts, or start leaving the room when he walks in, he goes into lowkey panic mode—but tries to play it cool.
He’ll hover. Try to act casual. Lean on your doorway like he isn’t dying inside.
“You good?” he asks.
You nod.
“…Right. That’s convincing.”
He won’t push. He’s too scared you’ll say it’s over.
But one night, he shows up at your place in the Batsuit. Mask off, hair a mess, eyes tired.
“You don’t have to forgive me right away. But just tell me what I did. Please.”
There’s a vulnerability in Terry that makes your silence wound him. Once you finally talk, he holds your face like you’re glass.
𝜗𝜚 — in which, jason almost loses you. you who built his world, you who is his world.
JASON TODD x READER mimi spitting out fics like crazy era , hint at reader being a vigilante but you’d have to squint, can also imagine reader as like a reporter / someone who searches + reports crime , . requested <3
The air reeked of smoke, gunpowder, and rotting metal. Rust dripped like blood from the beams overhead, and the shattered windows of the abandoned warehouse let in only slivered moonlight—pale and watchful. You ducked behind a rusted-out crate, heartbeat rattling like loose screws in your chest, breath caught somewhere between panic and instinct.
Footsteps crunched across the gravel-strewn floor. Not yours.
You’d come here on a hunch—stupid, reckless intuition. A whisper about a drop spot. A stolen phone pinging in this dead zone on the edge of Crime Alley. You hadn’t waited for backup. Hadn’t told Jason.
Because some part of you still believed you could handle it alone.
A flashbang cracked in the distance—followed by a scream, then silence.
You pressed a hand against your stomach, where the edge of a steel crate had kissed too hard. Bruised, but not broken. Not yet.
With a loud crash that reverberated in your bones, the back doors blew open like a bomb had gone off. Smoke spilled into the room in a crawling, living cloud, and through it walked a figure dressed in blood-red and black—shoulders squared, helmet glinting in the firelight like a demon had risen from the ashes.
Red Hood.
You didn’t even have time to say his name before he opened fire—precision sharp, brutal grace in motion. Two thugs dropped before they could turn their weapons. A third tried to run, and Jason threw a knife with an effortless flick of his wrist, pinning the guy by his jacket to the wall.
He didn’t speak as he approached.
Didn’t say a damn word as he took down the last straggler with a fist to the throat and a low, seething growl. Didn’t even flinch as a glint of a knife in his hand caught skin and pulled.
Only when the silence fell—thick, ringing, and absolute—did he finally turn to you.
His helmet came off with a jerk.
And Jason’s eyes burned like open flame.
“The hell are you doing here?” His voice was a snarl, barely leashed. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?”
Your breath caught, but you didn’t answer right away. The adrenaline was still draining from your limbs like water through a cracked dam.
“I was following a lead,” You said, quieter than you meant to. “I thought—”
“You thought?” He cut in, voice slicing sharp and clean. “You thought this was a good idea? You didn’t even call me. You just waltzed into a goddamn death trap like it’s some kind of—what? Solo mission? Do you think you’re bulletproof?”
The hurt behind his fury made your chest tighten.
“I didn’t want to drag you into it if it turned out to be nothing,” You muttered. “I didn’t want to be a burden.”
Jason’s expression twisted—shock, heartbreak, and fury mingling in a storm behind his eyes.
“A burden?” He repeated, voice hoarse. “You think I care about being dragged into danger? That’s my job. My whole life is built around pulling people out of burning wrecks—especially you.”
The words punched the breath out of you.
“I thought I lost you,” He added, quieter now. It was raw and it scared you. “You didn’t answer your phone. I saw the ping on that burner you took and by the time I got here. . .” He trailed off, swallowing hard. “I thought I was gonna find your body.”
Your heart cracked at the edges.
He stepped closer, close enough that you could see the faint tremble in his hands. His jaw was clenched so tight you could see the muscle ticking in his cheek, but there was fear underneath all that anger—a bone-deep terror carved into every word.
You reached out, fingers brushing the hem of his jacket. “I’m sorry.”
Jason exhaled through his nose like he’d been holding it in for hours.
He didn’t raise his voice again. He just wrapped an arm around you, sudden and fierce, pulling you against his chest like he needed to feel you breathing just to believe it.
“Next time,” He said, voice low and ragged into your hair, “we go together. Or not at all. Got it?”
You nodded, face buried in his armor. His scent was smoke, leather, and something painfully familiar—home, even when everything around you burned.
“Got it,” You whispered.
He kissed your temple, lingering there like he could imprint safety into your skin.
And for the first time all night, you let yourself feel safe—tethered to the one person who would always come for you, even if it meant tearing down the city to do it.
Jason didn’t let go of you for a long moment. His arms were wrapped around you like he was anchoring you to the present, as though if he let go, you’d disappear into the rubble and smoke like a dream he’d wake from too late.
Then, finally, without a word, he slid his helmet on your head and gently guided you toward his bike.
The ride home was silent—save for the roar of the engine and the occasional sharp gust of wind that tugged at your clothes. Your arms were tight around his middle, face pressed to the worn leather of his jacket, and though the ache in your body hadn’t subsided, something inside you settled with every mile that carried you away from that godforsaken warehouse.
When you finally reached the apartment, Jason parked the bike with precision, killed the engine, and peeled his helmet off your head, smoothing down your hair with a worried look, the lines of tension still hardened on his face.
The lock clicked under his fingers. He ushered you inside with a hand on your back—gentle, but firm, like you were glass and he still hadn’t forgiven himself for watching you crack.
Inside, the low lights flickered on, casting everything in a gold-dusted hush. The apartment smelled like cedarwood and lingering gun oil, the kind of scent you’d once found intimidating and now found oddly comforting.
Jason crossed the room ahead of you, tossed his helmet onto the couch already shedding off his body armor, then turned back with eyes that scanned you top to bottom. “Sit,” He said. “Living room. Let me see.”
You didn’t argue.
The moment you sat, he was already kneeling between your legs, hands surprisingly gentle as they swept over your arms, your ribs, your thighs—checking for bruises, breaks, blood. His brows were furrowed, a storm still quietly raging behind his eyes, but his touch was reverent. Almost apologetic.
“I’m okay,” You murmured, but your voice came out thin. Unconvincing.
Jason didn’t answer right away. He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, eyes dark and solemn. “Let me take care of you.”
There was no room for pride in that request. No sharp edges, no armor. Just the quiet plea of someone who needed to make sure you were still here, still whole.
You nodded.
He moved like a ghost then, retrieving the first aid kit from the bathroom with all the familiarity of ritual. When he returned, he cleaned the gash near your hip—nothing deep, but raw and angry-looking. The alcohol stung, but he didn’t flinch when you hissed. He murmured something low—an apology, or maybe a reassurance—as he worked.
His fingers were stained with your blood, but his hands were steady.
When he was done with you, you gestured for him to sit. “Your turn.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re bleeding, Jason.”
A breath escaped him—half a sigh, half surrender. He pulled off his shirt, revealing the mosaic of fresh bruises blooming along his ribs like stormclouds. A long scrape ran across his side, angry and red.
You worked in silence, the antiseptic sharp between you, the quiet hum of the city outside the only sound. As you pressed gauze to his wound, your hand trembled slightly. Not from fear—but from the sudden, sobering awareness of how close this had been.
“You could’ve gotten hurt worse,” You whispered.
Jason looked at you then—really looked—and something in his gaze softened. “So could you.”
You pressed the bandage into place, helped him put his shirt back on, then rested your palm over his chest, just above his heart. It beat strong beneath your fingers, steady and alive. And for a moment, that was all that mattered.
“I didn’t mean to scare you,” You said. Gentle.
He leaned into your touch, eyes closing briefly like your hand was the only thing tethering him to solid ground. “You didn’t just scare me,” He said, voice low. “You wrecked me.”
You didn’t know what to say to that, so instead, you leaned forward and pressed your forehead to his. The space between you buzzed with things left unsaid—fear, anger, relief, love—all wrapped in the same silence that hung heavy in the apartment like smoke that never cleared.
His hands found your waist, careful and grounding. Yours rested on his shoulders, fingers brushing the edge of the bandage you’d just placed.
And together, under dim lights and aching hearts, you held each other—not because either of you were broken, but because in the wreckage of that night, this was what survival looked like.
Quiet. Steady. Earned.
You stayed like that a while—knees brushing, foreheads touching, hearts slowly finding the same rhythm again. The world outside could fall apart, and maybe it had tonight, just a little. But here, in this pocket of warmth and gauze and unspoken promises, you both breathed a little easier.
Eventually, Jason eased back and stood, offering you a hand. His palm was calloused and nicked from years of holding guns and gripping rooftops, but when he held yours, it was soft—like even with all the danger in his bones, he remembered how to cradle something delicate.
“Come on,” He said, voice low and gravel-edged. “Let’s get some rest.”
You followed him into the bedroom, the floor creaking underfoot like it, too, exhaled after the night’s tension. The sheets were rumpled from earlier, but still warm. Jason tugged his shirt over his head again, a wince catching at his side, and you stopped him with a hand to his wrist.
“Don’t push it,” You said.
“’m fine.”
“You’re not made of titanium, Jay.”
He snorted faintly, then let you guide him to the bed. The two of you slipped beneath the covers without ceremony, just quiet, exhausted gravity. You settled into him like muscle memory, head tucked under his chin, his arm looping around your waist.
For a moment, the only sound was the hum of the city bleeding in through the windows and the soft cadence of his breathing.
Then, quieter than before, Jason spoke.
“When I found you in that warehouse. . .” His voice cracked a little, like something raw split open beneath the words. “I saw you—on the ground, blood on your shirt, that look on your face. I—” He stopped, swallowed, started again. “I don’t think I’ve ever been that scared.”
Your chest ached.
You looked up, and even in the dark, you could see the guilt etched across his brow, in the way his jaw clenched like he was still trying to keep something buried.
“I’m here,” You whispered. “I made it. Because of you.”
Jason’s arm tightened around you. “You don’t get it,” He said hoarsely. “You’re the one thing I can’t lose. Not after everything. Not you.”
And just like that, the last of the night’s defenses cracked.
You leaned up and kissed his temple, slow and lingering, like a benediction. “You won’t,” You murmured into his hair. “You won’t lose me.”
Silence stretched again—but this time, it was full. Of trust. Of breath. Of healing.
Jason’s breathing slowed, and you felt the tension bleed out of his body bit by bit, until he finally melted into the bed, into you. And you followed soon after, both of you bruised but whole, fragile but stitched back together in the places that mattered.
Outside, the city kept its noise, its violence, its ghosts.
But with him, under the soft hush of shared blankets and battered hearts, there was peace.
It wasn’t perfect or clean; but it was real. And that was enough.
It was the kind of peace that didn’t sing or shine, but rather breathed—low and slow, like the final exhale after a storm’s last crash. It settled in the hollow places: in the cracks beneath your ribs, in the ache of bruised skin, in the place between Jason’s shoulder and your cheek where your breath fogged against his bare collarbone.
The room was dark, but not empty. The quiet wasn’t silence—it was safety. The distant drone of traffic and the occasional siren became nothing more than white noise, swallowed by the warmth radiating from Jason’s body and the slow, syncopated beat of his heart under your hand. You could feel it, solid and relentless beneath your palm, a pulse like a war drum that had finally quieted to a lullaby.
He had one hand curled at your waist, fingers twitching in his sleep like his body didn’t quite trust that you were still there, even now. His other arm was tucked beneath the pillow you shared, cradling your head. Every inch of him—this man built of muscle and scars and rage—was wrapped around you like he was made for it.
And maybe he was.
Jason Todd was not a soft man. He was fire and steel, vengeance with a loaded gun and a restless soul. But in this hour, in this bed, he’d folded down all his edges just to make room for you. Every breath he took was a vow spoken in silence: I’ve got you. I won’t let go.
The ceiling above you was cracked and dim, a canvas smeared by passing headlights, and the shadows that moved across it were slow and reverent—like even the night didn’t dare disturb the stillness that had grown between you.
You didn’t sleep right away. Your body ached too much, and your thoughts—though gentler now—still flickered like old film reels. But you stayed close. You listened. To him. To yourself. To the miracle of being here, alive, and held.
And when your eyes did finally close, it was not from exhaustion, but from surrender.
Not to weakness—but to rest. To the quiet kind of love that didn’t need grand declarations or perfect timing. The kind that waited through the worst of you and met you in the wreckage, hands steady, heart bruised but unwavering.
You drifted off with your fingers still tangled in his shirt and his breath warm against your forehead, knowing—deep in the marrow of you—that tomorrow would come, full of city noise and unspoken danger and all the chaos that living beside him brought.
But tonight? Tonight, you had this: blood and balm, thunder and tenderness, wrapped up in the arms of a man who would tear the world apart just to keep you breathing.
And that, you thought as sleep finally claimed you, was more than enough.
And as sleep finally threaded its fingers through your hair and pulled you under, you didn’t think of the warehouse, or the bruises, or the mistakes that had almost cost you everything.
You only thought of him—the quiet strength in his arms, the steady beat of his heart anchoring you home—and how, in this fragile sliver of night, wrapped in the aftermath of chaos and care, you were no longer afraid.
Not of tomorrow. Not of falling. Not with him beside you.
⤷ ok so. first of all. he doesn’t think he falls in love. he thinks he allows himself to be in love. yes. that’s the distinction. he permits the emotional vulnerability to occur. like it’s a security clearance. like the state department signed off on it. like it’s a diplomatic treaty. love with damian is not some flower blooming. it is a classified operation that got out of hand. oops
⤷ and HE’S SO IRRITATING ABOUT YOUR SAFETY. like you want to go to a concert alone and he’s like “no. the venue has three open exits and a history of overcrowding. i’ll accompany you or you’re not going.” and you’re like 😐 and he’s like 🗿
⤷ he doesn’t compliment you like a normal person. he says things like “you’re the only one with a functioning brain in this city” and “your genetic makeup is statistically superior” and “if i had to pick a partner for an international espionage mission i’d pick you.” thanks?? i think???
⤷ dude. alright. listen. you have to understand. this is a boy raised by assassins and billionaires and batman. like he’s not normal. like if you try to do something normal with him he malfunctions. like “do you want to come over and watch a movie” turns into a whole debate about the nature of narrative and also suddenly he’s ordering a projector and rearranging your furniture and asking if the lighting is optimal. like your honor. we were going to watch legally blonde. relax.
⤷ he is in love with you but he’s in denial about it for the first 3–6 business months. he doesn’t say anything. he just starts appearing. you look up and he’s already there. he claims he was “in the area.” he was not. he has never been in the area. he took a grappling hook and an imported black car and made himself be in the area.
⤷ anyways he is sooooooo in love and SOOOOOOOO bad at dealing with it. like yes he grew up training with the league of assassins but no he has not developed a single healthy coping mechanism about feelings. NONE. zero. zilch. love is the final boss. and he’s underleveled
⤷ long stares. long long long. awkwardly long. you’ll be brushing your teeth and look up and he’s just. standing there. arms crossed. watching. “you’re quite graceful. even at mundane tasks.” ok damian what the hell. brush your own teeth and stop making me blush at 7am
⤷ he’s like. weirdly formal?? like you’ll be sitting on his lap playing animal crossing and he’ll be like “you’re very dear to me.” and you’ll be like ok first of all why do you sound like an 18th century count and second of all WHY DID THAT MAKE ME BLUSH
⤷ he calls you beloved. like that’s his go-to. he does not say “babe.” he does not say “sweetie.” he says beloved like he is writing from the war trenches. LMAO. like he’s penning a letter with a quill. “my dearest beloved, war is hell. gotham is colder without you. i miss your lip balm.”
⤷ ALSO he is so clingy. but in his own damian kind of way. like he will never straight up say “i miss you” but he’ll appear outside your window at 3am because you didn’t text back. “i was in the area.” no you weren’t damian
⤷ and when you fight. oh my god you fight. hoo boy. because he’s STUBBORN. and you’re you. and he’ll say something awful and cold and you’ll slam the door and not talk for a week and he’ll act all smug but he’ll show up at your window like “are you done being dramatic?” with a single perfect peach because you once said you liked them and he never forgot. he does end up apologizing formally tho like “i was... wrong. and unkind. i apologize.”
⤷ even if you don't fight crime he will still buy you a 6000 dollar custom-made tactical suit because “i noticed you lacked proper armor.” it’s black. with little green accents. matches his. you cried. he blinked and said “there’s a grappling hook too.” you cried harder. he looked vaguely alarmed and offered you tea
⤷ lowkey kinda unpopular opinion (i think???).....buttttt once you realllyyy get to know him,,, he’s v big on touch. but only in private (!!! he doesn't do pda tbh). arm around your waist when no one’s looking. hand on your lower back. gloved fingers brushing yours like he’s not thinking about it (he is). forehead touches. pulling you into his hoodie. tucking your legs over his lap while he reads. being completely silent while you cry but holding you like he’ll kill whatever made you feel this way. because he will.
⤷ he’s not really a hearts and flowers guy. but like. he’s very much a “i broke a guy’s jaw for looking at you too long” guy. very “i memorized your class schedule and made sure no one sits next to you” guy. very “i learned how to make your favorite soup and now i’m mad you’re not impressed” guy. very “i installed a new security system in your apartment. no you don’t get a say. yes i’m keeping the passcode” guy.
dates??? HAHAHAHAHAHAHA ok. deserves its own section.
dates with him are like. war strategy. no such thing as casual with him. no. no no. no. everything is intentional. everything is curated. calculated. coordinated. he's like "i made a reservation." and it's at some place with a 3-month waitlist and a single-item menu and food that looks like pebbles. and ur like “could we not have just gotten tacos??” and he’s like “you deserve better than tacos.” .......................................................he says it in the most offhanded way but ur already spinning. ur already sending ur soul to orbit.
like it can be “i booked us fencing lessons in case you get kidnapped again” or “i acquired the rooftop of that patisserie you like because you said you liked the view.” like THANK YOU BATBOY WHAT THE FUCK
he doesn’t --> ask <-- (keyword) you out. no no no. he **TELLS*** you. “we have dinner reservations. 7 sharp. wear something warm.” and you’re like. okay??? damn?? who’s we??? and then it’s just him and you and some obscure albanian place in gotham that “reminds him of a time he interrogated someone in tirana.” romantic!!!
they’re never normal. ever. like my guy why r we eating in an exclusive rooftop garden u rented for me.... and why the actual fuck does it technically belongs to a russian ambassador ???????!!!! HHELLOO?
but also. also. as much as u go to eccentric,,, expensive,, veryyy planned out dates .. you still have dates where u sit on rooftops. you eat mangoes. you say nothing for twenty minutes because he’s comfortable in silence. because you are too. because he touches your ankle with his and that says more than anything.
⤷ he loves graphs. he’s so... annoying. he has a favorites spreadsheet for restaurants. and another for your moods. and another for gifts you've liked. u found it once. he closed the tab too fast. embarrassed. blushing. you teased him for a week.
⤷ once you cried on his shirt and apologized for it and he just. looked at you. like loooooookedddddddd at you. and said “you’re allowed to fall apart. i’ll be here when you do.” and u almost blacked out.
⤷ he talks about the future like it’s inevitable. “when we get a place.” “when we go to xyz.” “when you graduate.” he says it like there’s no version of life that doesn’t include you. like he can’t even imagine it. like it’s already written.
⤷ he doesn’t say “i’m proud of you.”
he says: “of course you did. i expected nothing less.” (but the corners of his mouth twitch and his ears turn red. he’s proud. he’s so proud.)
⤷ he gets weird about your birthday. like. insane. he pretends he doesn’t care. he acts like it’s “just another day.” but you walk into your room and there’s a leather-bound copy of your favorite book with your initials embossed in gold. and tickets to an exhibit he overheard you mention one time six months ago. and a note. handwritten. in flawless cursive. that just says: “for everything you are. - d.” stop it damian. i’m going to cry into a cupcake.
⤷ he has no chill. ZERO chill. you are sneezing and he’s like “have you had vitamin C today.” someone looks at you funny and he’s like “i’ll break their jaw.” you say you’re cold and he wordlessly hands you his cape. the WHOLE cape. you’re drowning. he does not care. he thinks it’s cute
⤷ he glares at anyone who flirts with you like he’s deciding whether to break their legs or just ruin them socially. (he will do both. eventually. he’s efficient like that.) and when you tease him for being jealous he’s like “i do not experience jealousy. i experience possessiveness.” ok medieval knight whatever
⤷ also?? he TRIES to be cool and detached but the moment you compliment him? he malfunctions. like you say “you look handsome today” and he scoffs but his ears are red. FULL tomato. “tch. you’re foolish. i look the same every day.” sir you are glowing. you are combusting
⤷ and andddd he’s so so so tender in private. like “i cleaned your shoes for you” tenderness. “i annotated your favorite book with my commentary” tenderness. “i fixed the loose button on your coat” tenderness. he will never SAY “i love you” like a normal person. he will just DO THINGS. and STARE at you. a LOT
⤷ OH and when you get sick it is OVER. done. you’re in bed and suddenly there’s like. imported raw honey. five different teas. a humidifier. night vision cameras installed in case of intruders. he is kneeling at your bedside like a knight. he won’t let you get up for water. “you are in recovery. i’ll bring it to you. stay still.” ok. nurse ratched. love you
⤷ also he pets your hair like you’re a cat. like he will gently run his fingers through it while you talk about your day. doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. you mention it and he goes “your hair calms me.” you melt. obviously. puddle on the floor. he smirks. he knows. bastard
⤷ HE KEEPS THINGS. like. a little doodle you made on a napkin? framed. the necklace you left at his place once? he wears it under his uniform. he keeps it a secret obvi. you didn’t know for 6 months. cried when you somehow found out. obviously
⤷ he texts you "do not walk home alone. wait." and then appears. literally appears. like the wind shifts and suddenly he’s there with a helmet in his hand and a scowl on his face and a thousand unspoken thoughts like “i will kill for you. i will die for you. i will beat up your physics teacher if he makes you cry again.”
⤷ he’ll buy you a 200 dollar first edition of something obscure and then be like “it’s not a gift. i just thought it should be in your collection. don’t get emotional.” meanwhile ur emotional. ur on the floor. ur sobbing in a barnes & noble tote bag. he knows. he smirks. asshole.
⤷ but he notices everything. if you get a haircut. if your eyeliner is different. if your tone was off. if you’re chewing on your nail again. he sees it all. and he remembers. and he’s quietly doing things about it in the background. like refilling your meds or slipping snacks into your bag or hacking into your school portal and fixing a grade because “that teacher was clearly incompetent”
⤷ also. he doesn’t flirt. he argues. you’ll be like “i like this song” and he’ll be like “your taste is objectively inferior” and then buy you front row tickets to that artist’s next concert. he’ll say it’s to “broaden your cultural exposure” but he’s watching you the whole concert like you’re the show. don’t let him lie.
AKA weird/borderline red flag behaviors that Jason exhibits. TW mention of self harm in a passive way.
You got a period? He's tracking that.
Watches you sleep. The worst part (or the best for him) is that he's so good at being quiet that you've never woken up to catch him.
Jason gets the building plans for your apartment/house so he can identify weak spots, renovations, etc. He also likes to identify places that he can hide in. Just in case. :)
Jason's memorized every squeaky stair or door hinge in your place so he knows what to avoid so he won't make a sound.
He would hurt himself for you if he needed to. Take a bullet, break his wrist, whatever. Jason won't tell you because you'll get all concerned which is SO unnecessary because it's not going to change anything. You may not realize how precious you are but Jason does.
Sometimes Jason cups your neck and you think he's being sexy but he's actually checking your pulse.
He's made a copy of all of your keys. He knows all of your passwords. He doesn't break in or login to your laptop or phone (he doesn't need a password to do that anyway) but he has them for emergencies.
When you were first dating, Jason secretly ran an allergy test on you (don't ask how. He just did.) This was because he didn't want to bring you food you'd be allergic to or take you somewhere where you might have an allergic reaction.
Jason has a blood sample from you without your knowledge. He knows your blood type and significant DNA markers.
Sometimes Jason gets afraid that you're losing interest in him (because he's paranoid) so there are times where he brings you food every day and runs errands for you and makes himself extra available. It... borders on Pavlovian training.
He has a secret cabin far from Gotham, in case you ever want to leave for whatever reason. Jason mostly has it in case he or you ever committed a serious crime and needed to go on the lam.
He would break you out of jail, if that wasn't obvious. You'd have to do something disgustingly unforgivable to make him leave you there. Seriously. Jason has a low bar.
If you two had to leave the country, Jason also has several contingency plans for that.
Jason has at least sixty plans for what to do if you fall into some kind of danger or if he becomes indisposed and can't get to you. You do not know about these plans. You will never know about them unless they're needed.
If you get pregnant, Jason will know first.
He has hidden weapons in your place. No, you won't find them. No, they're not all guns.
Jason can do any kind of shopping for you. This is because he's so observant that he's memorized what kind of food you eat, what clothes you wear, what products you buy, what furniture you like, etc.
Jason has a shameful, repressed fantasy of you becoming a supervillain and making him your partner in crime. He would consent to this in a heartbeat. He knows you'd have a very good reason to turn evil.
Jason Todd would kill for you.
Sometimes he has nightmares that you're gone and Jason has to rest his head on your chest and listen to your heartbeat to fall back asleep.
Jason has another buried fantasy of you being a mad scientist and doing experiments on him. Do you want to do experiments on him? Please say yes.
At least three of your belongings (jewelry, headphones, shirt tags, etc) have an embedded tracker in them.
Jason always seats you so you'd be able to escape an area quickly (i.e., putting you in the aisle seat at a theater).
When Jason's on a mission and he's trying to force himself to do the right thing, he'll say "(Your Name) would want me to be good. I'll be good for them." You're kind of his god. Whatever works, right?
When you were first dating, Jason made a little shrine of your things in his apartment. He also stole some of your clothes so he could smell you at home (he replaced them so you wouldn't notice! So thoughtful.)
Jason has a lock of your hair for... reasons. You never know when you'll need someone's hair. 🤷♀️
The last person who figured out Jason's civilian identity and commented on you landed in the ICU. They didn't make it. So sad.
Jason replicated your scent in a lab and bottled it as a perfume. He sprays it when he's away on a job and misses you.
That's all I have for now! Perhaps there will be more weirdo Jason behaviors in the future 🥰
synopsis: Somebody finds you pretty while you’re having fun at the club and you go home together
notes: NFSW MDNI, they’re lesbians your Honour
tags: Butch!Jay Todd, stone top/pillow princess, oral sex (reader receiving), mentions of drinking, lesbians, fem!reader, about 2k words, no use of y/n
•─────⋅☾⊱♰⊰☽⋅─────•
You hadn’t even planned on going home with her. You were simply enjoying a night out with your friends, dancing, losing your soul to the heavy bass and ocean of sweaty undulating bodies when you felt a tap on your shoulder.
You were ready to brush this person off, say you were taken but when you met eyes, something eased in you a little—they didn’t look ready to jump at the opportunity to shove their tongue down your throat so you gave them as much attention as your alcohol-addled brain could.
“My friend has been looking at you all night! Do you like girls?”
You giggled drunkenly as they spoke loudly into your ear before pointing towards the booth where said friend was sitting.
And fuck, was she gorgeous. She was looking down at the empty shot in her hand, making her short black hair fall across her face, the bright white stripe in the front blooming different colours in the club’s strobe lights. Dressed in a simple black tee, her arms strained against her sleeves, v-neck dipping into her cleavage.
You nodded to the person’s question.
You were very much into women.
You thanked the stranger before slipping over to the friend they had gestured, intent on discovering whether or not she was actually interested.
She looked up at you as you slipped onto the bench next to her, almost surprised you had decided to pay her any attention.
”Hey there, sweetheart,” she said, voice surprisingly soft considering the club—you were far away enough from the speakers that you could hear her just fine.
”Is that your friend?” you asked, probably a little loud for your proximity as you pointed to the person who had approached you.
”Yeah,” the pretty woman said as she glanced at the person you were referring to before she nodded, “They have a girlfriend.”
You shook your head, realising she had misinterpreted the situation.
“They said you found me pretty.”
The pretty woman blinked at you before laughing, dropping her shot glass as she tipped her head back, flashing sharp canines that made your heart flutter.
“What a fucking snitch!”
You giggled softly as you scooted closer, squealing happily when she scooped you up, biceps flexing, and settled you on her lap. You shifted to straddle her thighs, dress riding up around your thigh, wrapping your arms around her neck with an elated grin. She smelt of cigarettes and perfume.
“I’m Jay.”
You introduced yourself in return, as you arched your back ever so slightly when her hands rested on your waist, the cool metal of her rings pressing against your skin—you’d never been happier to have worn an open back dress at the club. The rough texture of jeans against your bare legs, you’re panty-clad pussy against her muscular thigh.
“I think you’re really fucking gorgeous,” you said, twirling the hair at the nape of her neck around your finger.
“I think you’re pretty fucking hot too, ma,” she smiled as she leaned forward, brushing her nose against yours, “But you are so fucking drunk.”
”Sober up at yours?” you asked, a massive smile on your face, leaning back just enough to meet her sea green gaze.
”Didn’t you come here with friends?”
You craned your neck to look behind you, scanning the small packed room for your friends when you found them all huddled together by the bar, laughing and drinking.
One of them caught your eye and pointed, all your girls turned towards you and you waved. A few excitedly waved back as others tried to yell over the sound of the club—word seemed to run amongst them until understanding struck and they began shooing you away, blowing kisses and gesturing to call them later.
You laughed as you turned back to Jay, pulling yourself closer to her, chest to chest.
”I think they’re fine with it.”
She laughed softly again before patting your thigh. You got up excitedly, almost immediately wrapping your arm around her waist when she stood. Her hand went to the hem of your dress, tugged it down a little from where it had ridden up when you were straddling her lap before she wrapped her arms around your shoulders, gently guiding you out towards the cloakroom.
She helped you put your coat on before slipping her own on, pressing a hand to your lower back to lead you out as you chatted excitedly to her.
She just looked down and smiled, endeared by your drunken ramblings.
”You have a lot on your mind, don’t you?” she teased kindly as you stood on the curb, waiting for a taxi to pass by
“Only when I’ve had three cocktails and shots,” you smiled as you practically draped yourself on her side, “Or when I’m talking to a pretty girl and get nervous.”
“No need to be nervous, ma, I don’t bite.”
”Yeah?”
”Only if you ask.”
”Kinky,” you laughed as you tucked your head against her arm and she pulled you into a hug instead, shielding you from the cold—it may only have been June, but it didn’t mean it was particularly comfortable being out in a mini-dress—and the cold had sobered you up more than you were willing to admit now that you actually had to deal with the temperature drop.
You settled your head comfortably against her chest, her cheek against your head, as you swayed back and forth, the illusion of a dance, as you stayed suspended in time for just a moment, waiting for the world around you to catch up.
Jay’s head snapped up at the sight of headlights—she covered your ear not pressed to her chest before she whistled.
The trip back to hers was quiet; you continued to chat in the back of the cab quietly; she paid for the drive and lead you upstairs to her apartment—you didn’t recognise the street but you didn’t look around either, you’d guessed it was somewhere close to Park Row but a good rule of thumb in Gotham was to not look around. Looking around was paying too much attention.
She was quiet as she led you through her apartment building—no more quiet than usual, but you could feel the subtle tension in her frame as she held you close to her, shielding your body with her own.
Jay finally stopped in front of a door, dug her keys out her pocket and opened the door for you, locking it after she’d stepped in.
You took a look inside as you began to shed your jacket—it was homey, a tad impersonal, and that was definitely a dismantled gun on the coffee table but this was Crime Alley in Gotham City, you would be surprised if she didn’t have an unregistered firearm. You spotted a couple of framed pictures on the walls, a mismatched bookshelf, a badly crocheted blanket—it was cute.
You didn’t expect the gentle hands that wrapped around your waist or the soft kisses on your neck; you sighed, letting your head fall back against her shoulder as she cocked her head, trailing her kisses along your throat, hands wandering up your body.
”Want you so bad, ma,” she whispered, making the hairs on the back of your head raise.
”Mmh, bed?”
You didn’t expect to be tossed over her shoulder either. With a scream and laugh, you slapped her back as she just held your legs and grinned, walking through her apartment to toss you onto her bed.
”Didn’t realise you were strong like that,” you teased as you sat up on the bed, fingers tangling in the sheets. She tossed you a small rolled up towel which you dutifully laid out under your ass.
”I try,” she smiled up at you as she knelt by her bed and you just had to sit there and pretend your heart wasn’t on fire. She pulled off your heels, one by one, and set them by her bedside table before kissing your ankle, slowly making her way up your calf, your knee, your thigh.
”Can I?” she asked when she reached the hem of your dress—you could only nod silently while you felt your underwear dampen at the sight of her, so perfectly nestled between your thighs, at your service and eager. She pushed your dress up and above your head, gently began to lavish your neck again, kissing, sucking, biting until you were moaning softly in her arms, laying down for her, exposing yourself for her.
She unhooked your bra, letting your breasts spill free before she dipped down, brushing her tongue over pebbling nipples, suckling softly, all to savour the sound of your soft moans and sighs.
“I love these,” she said as she groped your tits, kneading them in her palms, pinching your nipples between her fingers, “So fucking gorgeous.”
“Jay- mmh!”
You ran your hands through her hair, keening and gripping her hair tightly when she bit down, and you swear you can feel her laugh against your skin.
You went with her as she laid you down, marking up your skin, “I wanna taste you.”
”Yes, yes, please, fuck-”
“Oh, you’re so fucking wet,” she said softly as she slipped a hand into your panties, cupping your mound softly before she shifted to work your underwear off, revealing your drooling pussy to her gaze. “All for me.”
You whined softly, looking up at her as she gazed down at your glistening folds, dragging a slow finger between them. She brought her finger up to her mouth and licked it clean, green eyes never leaving yours as she did.
“Oh, you taste so fucking good,” she said as she trailed downwards, kissing your tummy before laying between your legs, making you shiver as the metal of her rings trailed across your naked skin.
She kissed down your mound until she found your clit, hips jerking in her hold as she sucked lightly, kittenish licks as she held you open.
“Jay, you… o-oh-”
You sighed as she lapped up your pussy, tongue pushing against your opening as she devoured you, intent on licking up everything you had to offer and more. Hands in her hair, you whispered her name like a worship, moaning softly as your toes curled and you arched your back, pushing your hips against her face.
“You’re so sweet, ma,” Jay said softly as she held onto your thighs, taking her time as she ate you out, enjoying the art with no rush to race to the finish line. She just enjoyed watching you moan and squirm under her ministrations.
“So good,” you said, breathing hastening a little as you rolled your hips against her lower face. “Mmh, Jay…”
One of your hands left her hair to cup your own breast, tugging and rolling your nipple softly between your fingers, making you squirm and tremble.
She was so soft and firm with you, persistent and passionate in a way nobody had been with you before. She edged you closer and closer to the edge, making your belly clench and pussy flutter.
Nothing was frantic as you finally came, the tension finally snapping as you squirted all over her face, chanting her name like a prayer as you soaked her jaw and the towel below.
You could feel her smile against your puffy pussy, self-satisfied and smug.
“Good?” she asked as she rose.
“Uh huh,” you nodded as you looked at her before falling limp, looking up at the ceiling.
“Come on, ma,” she said as she helped you sit up, “Gotta clean up.”
“Noo…”
You followed reluctantly, letting her guide you to the bathroom. As she washed her face, you were instructed to pee and wipe yourself before she left the sink free to wash your hands.
She picked you up when you were done, carrying you back over to bed.
“Can I return the favour some time?” you asked softly as she set you down before pulling off her clothes, grabbing the towel, and tossing them into the laundry basket, before getting you both under the covers.
“Nah, it’s alright, it’s not for me,” Jay replied as she kissed your lips softly before lying down so you could rest your head on her bicep.
“Okay, how about coffee tomorrow?”
She smiled as she pulled you closer.
“It’s a date, ma.”
•─────⋅☾⊱♰⊰☽⋅─────•
a/n: I just think girls are neat — had this in the drafts for a hot minute, will probably write for it more if I get around to it
requests are open, just currently not being written <3 (jk, it’s happening, just very slowly)
i enjoy your writing sooo much and am on a chibi brainrot rn. so like,, idk if this is gonna be a request or something but like—
reader finding a pocket/mini-me of their significant other (any if the batfam or all) and brings them home only for their original big version to see it being all lovely-dovy to reader and are now fighting (and threatening) to 💀 said small them
˖ ֹ੭୧ MINI ME? FUCK NO. ⊹ ࣪ ⑅
ˋ°•*⁀➷ bf/gf!batfam react to mini-them x reader !
ˋ°•*⁀➷ CHARACTERS: Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson, Barbara Gordon, Jason Todd, Cassandra Cain, Tim Drake, Stephanie Brown, Duke Thomas, Agedup!Damian Wayne
NOTES: THIS IS SO FUNNY LOL
BRUCE WAYNE:
It began with a soft thump in your purse.
You weren’t sure when you’d picked it up—maybe at that weird antique bookstore that smelled like cinnamon and existential dread—but nestled between your phone and chapstick was a… tiny man?
A very tiny, grumpy-looking man in a miniature black suit.
“Who authorized this?” he asked, voice no louder than a whisper, yet filled with the gravitas of a Batcave full of trauma.
You blinked. “I—what? Who are you?”
“I’m Bruce Wayne,” said Pocket Bruce, crossing his arms. “You brought me here. You’re responsible now.”
The moral implications of owning a tiny billionaire were lost to the part of your brain that immediately thought, He's kind of cute. Like a stern Funko Pop come to life.
Naturally, you brought him home.
You tucked him into a drawer-turned-bed, gave him a shirt scrap for a blanket, and when he said “thank you,” your heart did a tiny backflip. By day three, he was climbing your shoulder like a very serious parrot, advising you on investments, security systems, and emotional boundaries. It was… oddly therapeutic.
That is, until the original Bruce walked in on Pocket Bruce kissing your cheek.
“What,” growled Full-Sized Bruce, “the hell is that.”
“Oh, hey,” you said casually, holding up Pocket Bruce like a kitten. “Look what I found! He’s like you, but travel-sized!”
Full Bruce’s jaw tightened. “Put. Him. Down.”
Pocket Bruce smirked. “Jealousy doesn’t suit you.”
“Neither does dying,” Bruce shot back. “Which is exactly what’s going to happen if you don’t remove your tiny lips from their face.”
You watched as your very stoic, very mature boyfriend started threatening his miniature doppelgänger like it was a rival suitor from the League of Shadows.
“Bruce, he’s like four inches tall.”
“He’s making moves.”
“He gave me a flower made of lint.”
“He gave you his heart. I see it. I see the betrayal.”
Pocket Bruce raised an eyebrow. “I’m literally you.”
“I would never behave like that.”
“You absolutely would,” you and Pocket Bruce said in perfect unison.
Bruce glared. “That’s it. I’m building a terrarium prison. And he’s going in with a GPS tracker, a tiny treadmill, and no visiting hours.”
You cuddled Pocket Bruce closer. “You’re just mad he gives more compliments than you do.”
Bruce Wayne, billionaire, vigilante, and now insecure over his micro-self, crossed his arms. “I am not losing you to pocket-sized competition.”
“I mean… he did say I looked radiant this morning.”
“…You’re grounded.”
“Bruce, we don’t even—”
“Grounded. You and the tiny little shit.”
DICK GRAYSON:
It started as a normal afternoon stroll through Gotham’s market district.
You bought a caramel apple, admired a soap shaped like a raccoon, and picked up what you thought was a little plush keychain of Nightwing—until it squirmed in your hand and shouted in the most high-pitched but undeniably Dick Grayson voice:
“Hey, hey, hey! Hands off the butt!”
You screamed. Loudly.
By the time you’d stopped hyperventilating, Pocket Dick was sitting on your shoulder, legs dangling, grinning like he hadn’t just spoken full sentences with the voice of an action figure powered by charisma and abs.
“I’m Dick Grayson!” he said cheerfully. “You must’ve summoned me with love, justice, and good lighting.”
You blinked. “You’re what.”
“A pocket version of the best Grayson there is. Limited edition. And look at you—you’re gorgeous! Do you work out? Are you single? Wait—no, don't answer. Let’s just say I’m very emotionally available.”
You spent the entire afternoon with him doing flips off your coat buttons and reciting dramatic “Nightwing Facts” like a Wikipedia page in love. The man even offered to dance with you on your kitchen counter.
So obviously, you kept him.
You were lounging on the couch later that evening, Pocket Dick nestled in your hands and serenading you (very off-key) with “Can’t Take My Eyes Off You,” when your door clicked open.
“Hey babe—” Real Dick called out, “—I grabbed takeout. Hope you didn’t already eat—”
He froze.
You looked up, horrified, as Dick stared at his one-inch clone literally nuzzling against your thumb.
Real Dick’s entire brain blue-screened.
“Is… is that me?” he asked, blinking hard. “Am I—am I hallucinating? Did someone spike my smoothie?”
“Hello, handsome!” chirped Pocket Dick, waving like he was on a float in the Grayson Parade. “You must be me! Wow. We look amazing.”
Dick took a full step back, like the small version of himself had rabies and a taser.
“NOPE,” he said loudly. “I am not doing this. I am not competing with myself! That is a rabbit hole I am not emotionally prepared for.”
“He said I was ethereal,” you offered helpfully.
Dick wheezed. “He did WHAT.”
Pocket Dick flexed both arms (barely noticeable noodle biceps) and added, “I also told them they were the most beautiful human I’ve ever seen. Which is still true.”
“You told them that?!” Dick sputtered, setting the takeout down like it offended him. “I—wait, no, I told them that like… last week! Or was it last month? WHEN DID I LAST SAY SOMETHING NICE?!”
“You told me I was ‘pretty lethal with a fork’ two days ago,” you offered.
“That was romantic!” he shouted, pointing accusingly at his mini-me. “It was contextually romantic! There were dumplings involved!”
Pocket Dick leaned against your fingers like he was on a chaise lounge. “They deserve constant compliments. Honestly, I don’t know why they’re dating someone who won’t serenade them like I do.”
Real Dick’s jaw dropped. “Did he just out-boyfriend me?! That’s illegal!”
He marched over and snatched up Pocket Dick like an angry sibling. “Listen here, small me. You might be charming, you might have my hair—”
“Which looks great, by the way.”
“—but you better back off. This is MY person. Mine. Go find a dollhouse and reevaluate your life choices.”
Pocket Dick crossed his tiny arms. “Jealousy isn’t hot on us.”
Real Dick turned to you with the most betrayed expression imaginable. “You can’t keep him. I’m serious. You can’t let him stay. He’s too powerful. He’ll take my place in like, two days.”
You sighed dramatically, letting your head fall onto Dick’s shoulder.
“Fine. But only because you’re bigger.”
Dick paused.
“…You mean taller, right?”
Pocket Dick smirked. “Do they?”
BARBARA GORDON:
You found her in your hoodie pocket.
No explanation. One second you were putting on your hoodie to run errands, the next, you reached into the pouch and felt… a batarang? No, wait—a whole person.
Tiny, auburn-haired, with a laptop strapped to her back and the most intense little smirk you’d ever seen on something under four inches tall.
“Hey,” she said, casually leaning against your wrist. “You got good taste in sweatshirts. And faces. Are you single?”
You blinked. “Wha—”
“I’m Barbara,” she interrupted, brushing lint off her miniature cape. “Well, pocket-sized Barbara. Less trauma, same fire. I come with unlimited sass, mild trust issues, and an entire database of Gotham’s criminal underworld. Also, I think you’re hot.”
Your brain melted a little.
She was confident. Charismatic. Flirting like she’d been training for it. You were kind of obsessed.
By the time the real Barbara got home—tired, sore, a little grumpy after a patrol—you were curled up in bed, reading, while Pocket Babs lounged on your shoulder eating a crumb of cookie like it was a full meal.
Barbara tossed her gloves on the table. “Hey, babe, you home? You won’t believe what Joker tried tonight—”
She stopped. Froze. Blinked twice.
“Are you… cuddling with a mini version of me?”
Pocket Babs looked up with a devilish grin and waved. “Hi, gorgeous! You’ve got great hair. Wanna compare bat-gadgets sometime?”
Barbara squinted. “What the—what the actual hell is that?”
“Your pocket twin,” you said brightly, petting tiny Babs like a smug gremlin. “She was in my hoodie. I think I love her now.”
Real Babs walked over, hands on her hips. “She was in your—? Okay. First of all, that’s my hoodie. Second, why is she making eyes at you like she wants to steal you from me?”
Pocket Babs licked some cookie crumb off her finger. “Steal is a strong word. Reclaim, maybe. I mean, you’ve got a lot on your plate. Maybe I can be the emotionally available one.”
Barbara blinked. “Is she negging me right now?”
You choked back a laugh. “A little bit.”
“Oh my god.” Barbara leaned in, eye twitching. “I’m being out-sassed by myself.”
“She also said she could hack the Pentagon in a minute and compliment me at the same time.”
Real Barbara’s jaw dropped. “I have done that! That’s just my Tuesday!”
Pocket Babs waved a mini flash drive. “Wanna see what I pulled from GCPD’s servers? Also, you smell really good.”
Real Babs snapped her fingers. “Nope. This is not happening. You—small me—you need to stop flirting with my partner. You’re gonna short-circuit them. And I do not have the energy to fight myself tonight.”
“You’re just jealous,” said Pocket Babs, twirling a lock of her auburn hair. “I’m the cool version.”
Barbara crossed her arms. “I am the cool version! I literally jumped out a window on fire once!”
Pocket Babs shrugged. “Yeah, but did you do it in miniature and land in their hands all flirty and mysterious?”
Barbara blinked at you. “Tell me you’re not falling for her.”
“She has a grappling hook the size of a thumbtack,” you whispered reverently. “I’m kind of enchanted.”
Barbara flopped face-first onto the couch with a muffled groan. “I’m losing my girlfriend to… me.”
You looked down at Pocket Babs, who winked and blew you a kiss.
Yeah. This was going to be a problem.
JASON TODD:
It started with a crash in the alley behind your apartment.
Naturally, like the well-trained Gothamite you were, you peeked through the blinds with a broom in one hand and 911 pre-dialed on your phone.
But what you found wasn’t a mugger or a rogue Joker gang.
It was a pocket-sized man in a tiny red helmet, stomping through an empty takeout container like it insulted his mother.
“I said NO onions, you absolute shitheads!” he shouted, voice comically deep for his size. Then he kicked the container so hard he fell backward into a puddle.
You opened the window and stared.
He froze, looked up at you, and said, “...Sup. You look like someone with great taste in books and bad taste in men.”
You blinked. “Are you—”
“Red Hood. But, you know… travel-sized. You got snacks?”
You were way too curious (and a little entertained) to leave him in the alley, so you scooped him up with your hoodie sleeve and brought him inside.
Turns out: Pocket Jason is all bark, no bite, and 98% unresolved rage in a thimble-sized package. He curses like a sailor, refuses to take off his helmet (“It’s iconic, don’t touch it”), and uses a paperclip as a crowbar.
Also, he flirts like a menace.
“You dating anyone?” he asked, curled up in your hand like a brooding Funko Pop. “You should date someone with anger issues and a tragic backstory. I know a guy.”
You were half-laughing, half-dying when the front door opened.
“Hey, I got that wine you like,” Real Jason said, stepping into the apartment with that rare relaxed grin he only gave you. “Want me to—”
He stopped.
He blinked.
You slowly turned around, holding a swearing, helmet-wearing inch-tall gremlin.
“What,” Jason said flatly, “is that.”
“Oh hey,” Pocket Jason chirped. “Nice face. Your girlfriend is hot.”
The wine bottle hit the floor.
Real Jason stormed across the room in record time and plucked his pocket doppelgänger out of your hands like he was holding a cursed action figure.
“NOPE,” Jason barked, holding him at arm’s length like he might explode. “Absolutely the hell not.”
“Hey!” Pocket Jason squirmed. “Hands off! I'm limited edition! I cost a lot y'know?!”
Jason stared at him with narrowed eyes. “You are one sentence away from getting thrown into the microwave.”
You burst out laughing. “Jason!”
“He called you hot!” Jason shouted, gesturing wildly at you with one hand and holding his mini-me like a crab with the other. “You think I’m gonna let a Thumbelina version of myself hit on my girlfriend?!”
Pocket Jason gave a dramatic sigh. “You’re just mad I’m fun-sized and charming.”
“Jason, give him back.”
He yeeted Pocket Jason onto the couch. The little menace bounced, landed on a throw pillow, and gave you finger guns. “Still available, by the way.”
Real Jason stood over him, seething.
“You flirt with them again,” he growled, “I will vacuum you.”
Pocket Jason crossed his arms. “Try it, big boy.”
“Okay!” Jason snapped, turning to you. “That’s it. You are not keeping him.”
You smirked. “Even if he brings me a tiny cup full of coffee every morning and compliments my eyes?”
Jason blinked. “...I can do that.”
Pocket Jason whispered, “But will you?”
Jason lunged. You screamed. The couch got flipped.
Somewhere in the chaos, the wine bottle rolled under the table and Pocket Jason disappeared into a heating vent with a war cry of “I REGRET NOTHING!”
You didn’t see him again for three days.
(He returned with a tiny scarf and a bottle cap shield.)
CASSANDRA CAIN:
You found her in your sock drawer.
No joke. You opened it to grab your favorite fuzzy pair and instead found a perfectly balanced miniature ninja standing in a defensive stance atop your rolled-up socks.
She didn’t speak. She just stared at you with piercing, dark eyes like she could see into your soul.
You blinked.
She didn’t move.
You slowly reached for a sock.
She kicked it off the drawer and said, in the tiniest, softest voice:
“No.”
You whispered, “What the—”
She stepped forward. One sock-sized foot in front of the other. “You’re mine now.”
Oh. Okay.
So obviously you kept her.
You gave her a little tea saucer to sleep in and a thimble of honey and she immediately declared your desk drawer “hers.” She still hadn’t said much else, but she followed you everywhere like a stealthy bodyguard. You’d glance over and she’d be perched on your shoulder, silently munching a Cheerio with absolute menace.
You found it adorable. You told her so. She blinked once, nodded, then handed you a toothpick she’d sharpened into a sword.
“For you,” she said.
You might have cried a little.
Then one night, Real Cass got home from patrol. You were watching a show, sipping tea, and Pocket Cass was curled up in your hoodie pocket like a tiny assassin cat.
Cass froze in the doorway.
Stared.
Hard.
“…Is that me?”
You smiled. “Kinda. She’s smaller. But she protects me. And steals my snacks. You’d like her.”
Real Cass stepped closer. Pocket Cass stood up on your chest like she was ready to throw hands with her full-sized self.
Cass tilted her head. “She’s not… talking?”
“Nope,” you said, sipping your tea. “She just sits and judges people. Sometimes cuddles.”
“…Hm.”
Cass held out a hand. Pocket Cass studied it for five long seconds. Then jumped into it like a graceful little wolverine.
They locked eyes.
You held your breath.
Then Cass whispered, “She’s fast.”
“She stabbed a rat with a sewing needle this morning,” you said proudly.
Real Cass cracked a small, delighted grin. “Good.”
They sat together in silence for the next hour. Cass gave her a scrap of her cape as a cloak. Pocket Cass gave her a single sunflower seed. It was the most intense emotional bonding you’d ever witnessed from two people who said, collectively, three words.
Later, when you were brushing your teeth, you saw Pocket Cass curled up on the nightstand. Cass tucked her in with a tissue and whispered, “Mine.”
You blinked. “Wait—her? Or me?”
Cass kissed your cheek and said nothing.
You are now owned by both of them. Congratulations.
TIM DRAKE:
You found him curled up inside your empty coffee mug.
At first, you thought it was just a weird shadow. Then the mug moved.
“Shhh,” a tiny voice mumbled from inside, “I’m in a depressive nap cycle.”
You cautiously picked up the cup. Inside was a perfectly proportioned, fun-sized Tim Drake, wrapped in a corner of a tea bag like it was a depression blanket. His hair was messy, his eye bags were real, and his attitude was absolutely on-brand.
“…Are you okay?” you whispered.
He opened one eye. “Do I look okay?”
“…Fair.”
You offered him a tiny square of chocolate. He took it like you’d given him a reason to live.
Thus began your chaotic cohabitation with Pocket Tim: a miniature detective with too many feelings and not enough therapy. He lived in your cereal box, stole your pen caps to use as swords, and kept trying to hack into your router with a bent paperclip.
Also, he wouldn’t stop flirting with you.
“Statistically speaking,” he said one night, sprawled on your laptop keyboard, “you’re into emotionally repressed black haired men with guilt complexes.”
You squinted. “You mean my actual boyfriend?”
He gave finger guns. “Exactly. So, you’re welcome.”
That’s when Real Tim came home.
He dropped his backpack at the door and stepped inside, phone in one hand, talking mid-sentence. “Hey, did you see the GCPD file I—”
He stopped.
His eyes zeroed in on the mini-him doing a smug backstroke across your tea.
“…What the hell,” Real Tim said, voice flat. “Is that.”
Pocket Tim peeked up from the mug. “Sup, big me.”
You made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a choke.
Real Tim walked over slowly, arms crossed, eyes narrowing. “Why does he look like me during my second year with the Titans?”
Pocket Tim leaned dramatically on a sugar cube. “Because I am. Unfiltered. Unapologetic. Underslept.”
Real Tim looked at you. “Why is he here?”
“He showed up in my cup,” you shrugged. “I figured you'd want to study him or whatever.”
Pocket Tim grinned. “I’ve already mapped out their favorite music playlists. And their zodiac chart. I’m the better boyfriend.”
Real Tim deadpanned, “You’re literally two inches tall.”
“And yet,” Pocket Tim purred, “I take up more emotional space.”
Tim inhaled deeply through his nose. “I’m going to kill him.”
“You’d be killing yourself,” Pocket Tim chirped.
“That’s not a deterrent!”
You were laughing way too hard at this point. Tim turned back to you, scandalized. “You’re encouraging him.”
You wiped tears from your eyes. “I can’t help it. He made a PowerPoint on why I deserve better lighting in my apartment.”
Tim blinked. “…He’s not wrong.”
Pocket Tim gave a tiny mic drop with a crumb.
Later that night, you found both Tims passed out on opposite ends of your keyboard, one curled up on the spacebar, the other drooling on a sticky note. They’d argued for three hours about Nightwing’s leadership style and which coffee beans had the best ROI.
You took a photo.
You were keeping it for blackmail.
STEPHANIE BROWN:
You were eating leftover waffles on the couch when a suspicious rustling came from your laundry hamper.
You stared. Silence.
Then—POOF!
A flash of lavender and a blur of blonde launched from the laundry like a glitter bomb with combat boots.
“Fear me, mortals!” a voice squeaked. “I’m the Spoiler, but bite-sized!”
You shrieked and nearly flung your waffle.
A tiny girl—complete with a minuscule domino mask, purple hoodie, and the most chaotic grin you’ve ever seen—stood proudly on your coffee table. She raised a sewing needle like a sword.
You blinked. “…Steph?”
“Steph 2.0,” she said dramatically. “Improved. Streamlined. Pocket-sized for vengeance and emotional support!”
You offered her a crumb of your waffle. She took it like a trophy and climbed onto your shoulder with the agility of a very tiny jungle cat.
And honestly? She was kind of amazing.
She made you laugh constantly. She would yell things like “Tiny Justice!” every time she knocked over a water bottle. She bullied your phone’s voice assistant. Once, she took down a cockroach using only a rubber band and your toothbrush.
You’d had her for five hours and would already die for her.
Which is exactly when Real Steph got home.
She walked in, swinging her duffel over her shoulder, mid-text. “Babe, have you seen—”
Her eyes locked onto the little menace standing on your shoulder with her hands on her hips like she was posing for the Batfamily Yearbook.
Steph stopped.
Squinted.
Looked at you.
Looked at Pocket Steph.
“…What the actual Gotham is going on here?”
Pocket Steph beamed. “You’re hot.”
Real Steph blinked. “Okay, I know I’ve said that to myself in the mirror, but this is weird.”
“She’s been vibing,” you offered. “Also she called herself the ‘snack-sized spoiler of my dreams.’”
Real Steph made a face like she’d just swallowed a lemon. “I would never say that.”
“You did. In high school. I saw it in your yearbook,” Pocket Steph said smugly.
Real Steph slowly walked over and squinted at her miniature twin. “Okay, look. You’re cute and annoying and remind me of me before caffeine. But you better not be replacing me.”
“Oh no no,” Pocket Steph said, smirking. “I’m just here to keep them entertained when you’re off ignoring her texts for eight hours.”
Steph gasped.
You sipped your drink.
“First of all, rude,” Steph huffed. “Second of all… okay maybe fair.”
Pocket Steph winked. “Also I told them we should get matching hoodies.”
“Oh my god,” Real Steph groaned. “She’s hijacking my entire personality.”
“You don’t own purple, Full-Sized Stephanie.”
“I WILL DROP-KICK YOU INTO THE BATCAVE.”
They bickered. You watched, grinning into your cup like a reality show contestant who’d just stirred the pot and sat back for the fallout.
Eventually, they fell asleep curled together in your lap: one snoring softly, the other tangled in the drawstring of your hoodie.
You weren’t sure who was the real chaos goblin anymore. But you were 100% keeping them both.
DUKE THOMAS:
You found him in a streetlamp.
No, really.
You were walking home after a late shift, phone flashlight guiding the sidewalk, when one of Gotham’s flickering streetlamps suddenly glowed bright gold. From that soft shimmer floated a tiny, perfect miniature of Duke Thomas—complete with curly hair, a yellow domino mask, and armor repurposed from gum wrappers and safety pins.
He hovered for a second, then dropped like a lightbulb into your jacket pocket.
“Oof—ten outta ten landing,” he said, peeking up with a smile. “Hi. I’m your Pocket Duke now.”
“…My what now?”
“Your emotional support vigilante.” He spread his arms. “Travel-sized for your convenience. Mood-brightening. Vitamin D-certified.”
That’s how it started.
In the following days, Pocket Duke became your favorite thing. He rode on your shoulder during work Zooms, insisted on helping you cross streets (“I’m the designated flashlight, okay?”), and gave you pep talks before interviews.
He was a mini motivational speaker with the sass of a bored honor student.
He also quoted Shakespeare during toast-making. No one asked him to. He just did.
He was good company while Duke was gone on another of his missions.
You were in the middle of brushing your teeth with him reading aloud from The Tempest when the door to your apartment creaked open—and Real Duke finally walked in, mid-yawn, hoodie up, duffle bag slung over one arm.
“Hey, babe,” he mumbled. “Im home—”
Then he froze.
Locked eyes with himself standing on your bathroom counter, reciting Caliban in a toothpaste cap helmet.
Real Duke’s eyes narrowed. “Is that… me?”
Pocket Duke stopped mid-soliloquy. “Oh cool, the big version’s home.”
Real Duke turned to you. “Please tell me that’s a very elaborate animatronic.”
You snorted. “He’s been sleeping in the sock drawer and quoting Dead Poets Society for three days.”
Pocket Duke gave a tiny bow. “I’m your better half. If your better half fit inside a teacup.”
Real Duke squinted. “How do I know you’re not a hallucination from my third all-nighter this week?”
“Because I moisturize,” Pocket Duke said smugly, “and your skin has been looking rough, my guy.”
You were crying laughing.
Real Duke rubbed his temple. “This is exactly why Damian calls me ‘Robin Lite.’ I don’t even get the normal clone trope. I get… this.”
Pocket Duke crossed his arms. “Hey! I am efficient. I am charming. And I got them to actually eat breakfast. What did you do? Ghost them fro three days without even sending a single message?”
Real Duke opened his mouth. Closed it. Turned to you.
“…Are you replacing me?”
You raised your hands. “He makes a good case.”
Duke squinted. “I swear to god, if he starts dancing to his own theme song—”
Too late.
Pocket Duke cranked up your phone’s Bluetooth speaker and began performing a self-choreographed interpretive dance to Childish Gambino.
Real Duke sat down on the floor, head in his hands. “I can’t believe I’m being upstaged by pocket-sized confidence.”
You patted his back. “He is kind of adorable.”
Real Duke sighed deeply. “I can’t fight him. He’s me. But fun-sized. He’s like if ego and therapy had a baby.”
Pocket Duke struck a pose. “You’re welcome.”
Later that night, Duke tucked the mini version of himself into a dish sponge fort and muttered, “If he starts narrating my patrol routes in slam poetry, I’m calling Zatanna.”
You didn’t tell him Pocket Duke already had a sonnet prepared for your grocery run.
AGED UP!DAMIAN WAYNE:
You found him meditating in your windowsill.
You’d come home from a long day at work, peeled off your jacket, and gone to close the curtains—and there he was. Cross-legged. Eyes closed. Arms tucked in a miniature version of a League cloak, swaying slightly in the breeze like a judgmental bonsai tree.
“You are late,” he said. “I waited 47 minutes and 13 seconds. I almost activated Plan B.”
“…What was Plan B?”
He gestured to a half-empty jar of peanut butter and your cat looking unusually satisfied.
You decided not to ask.
You named him “Lil D” in your phone and tried not to giggle when he gave you The Look™ for it.
In the days that followed, Pocket Damian became… a force.
He demanded daily fencing practice. With cocktail skewers.
He threatened your toaster for "mocking him with its insolent ticking."
He drew accurate crime scene sketches with a broken crayon and posted them on your fridge.
And the worst part?
You were obsessed with him.
He was adorable in the way that a saber-toothed tiger cub is adorable. Dangerous. Bitey. But your saber-toothed tiger cub.
And then Real Damian came over.
You were on the couch, hand-feeding Pocket Damian peeled grapes (he insisted on not touching "non-sterile civilian produce"), when the front door opened.
Real Damian stepped in. Jacket half-zipped. Hair slightly windblown. Eyes already narrowed in suspicion.
“Beloved,” he called, setting his keys down. “I could not find you at the training center—what are you—”
He froze.
Pocket Damian wiped his mouth delicately with a square of tissue and turned to face him.
“Well, well, well,” he said. “Look what the camel dragged in.”
Real Damian stared.
You braced.
Then—
“What is that,” he said flatly, tone already descending into steel.
You smiled nervously. “He… kind of found me?”
“He is wearing my League insignia.”
“He said he earned it. With ‘blood and honor.’”
“He is three inches tall.”
“He threatened to duel me for my soul this morning. It was kinda cute.”
Real Damian marched over, leaned down, and squinted.
Pocket Damian met his gaze without flinching.
“You lack discipline,” Mini-Damian said bluntly. “Your posture is failing. Your blade hand is clumsy. You do not deserve them.”
You gasped.
Real Damian did not. Move.
His jaw ticked.
You could feel the murder energy radiating like a low hum through the room.
“Say that again,” Real Damian said coolly.
Pocket Damian leapt to the top of your ramen box stack, cloak fluttering behind him like an angry fruit bat.
“You. Do. Not. Deserve. Them.”
“…You’re going out the window,” Damian said.
You yelped. “Wait—!”
But it was too late. Pocket Damian took one look at his full-size counterpart lunging toward him and flung a mini smoke bomb from your salt shaker. The kitchen filled with paprika.
By the time the air cleared, Pocket Damian had vanished into your sock drawer.
Damian turned to you, betrayed. “You allowed that demon to insult me. In my presence.”
“You are that demon, Dami.”
“He implied you should be with him.”
“He said he’d ‘build me a nation from the bones of my enemies.’ Honestly, it was kind of flattering.”
Damian scowled.
“…You’re jealous of yourself.”
“I am not.” He crossed his arms. “I am jealous of the fact that he has clearly manipulated you using your fondness for the pathetic and the strange.”
“…So me, basically?”
He flushed. “You are not pathetic.”
You smirked. “But I am strange?”
“…Your continued tolerance of him proves it.”
Later, after much negotiation, Real Damian agreed not to “accidentally step” on Mini-Dami—under the condition that Pocket Damian slept in a shoebox lined with Kevlar and did not speak unless spoken to.
Pocket Damian agreed. For now.
You found them both meditating on your windowsill the next morning.
In matching poses.
Real Damian, eyes closed, muttered under his breath, “If he mimics my breathing one more time, I will sew his mouth shut.”
pairing(s): dick grayson, jason todd, tim drake, stephanie brown, cassandra cain, kyle rayner, wally west, hal jordan x fem! reader.
summary: their reactions to the "current partner" trend.
a/n: mute Cass you are canon in my heart <3
DICK GRAYSON
[You step backwards from the camera, showing off the outfit you'd coordinated with Dick, trying to prevent yourself from bursting into a fit of giggles as you anticipate his reaction.]
"He wanted us to match, isn't my current boyfriend so cute!" You smile as you watch his reaction through the phone screen.
[The camera zooms in on your boyfriend, who immediately stumbles mid-step like you punched him, as his smile drops into a horrified stare.]
"Current???" He gasps, a hand clutching his heart dramatically. "I’ve met your family. I fold your laundry. I shared my dessert with you last night, willingly!"
You brace your hands on your knees, hunched over as you burst into laughter. You go to speak, but Dick's on a roll.
"No. No, no, no. I’m not some temporary man. I’m not a placeholder! I’m..." He sputters, trying to articulate his point as he waves an acussing finger at you "I'm an endgame boyfriend. The endgame boyfriend!"
He huffs, crossing his arms over his chest and turning his back to sulk.
"Aw, is the endgame boyfriend gonna cry?" You hug him from behind, resting your cheek against him.
"Maybe."
[The camera cuts to a sulking Dick, drinking poutily from a mug you bought him earlier that says "#1 Boyfriend." Just managing to pick up his mumbled words.]
[You prop your phone up, resting it against your mug to show off your still groggy boyfriend who is currently mid-sip of coffee]
"Breakfast with my current boyfriend."
This instantly catches Jason's attention, making him cough a little as he lowers the mug. "…The current what now?"
"Boyfriend." You beam, as if nothing in the world is wrong.
He squints as you, his coffee long forgotten. "See that's what I thought I heard, current boyfriend, but I must be wrong. What happened to 'ride or die'? What happened to you’re it for me, Jay'? Did I hallucinate all of that?"
"Hon, relax."
But he cuts you off, "No, no, no. See, now I’m wondering if I need to get my duffle bag and my helmet and hit the road. Am I getting replaced? Are you conducting auditions behind my back?"
"Oh, here we go." You mutter under your breath as Jason stands and begins pacing.
"I’m tall, I give the best hugs, I'm rich." He pauses and just when you think he's done he spins to face you. "I read! I literally read books. That's like a dreamboat hobby. What more do you want from me?"
"Babe. It’s a tiktok trend. It’s literally a joke." You giggle.
[You pick up the camera, zooming in on his squinting face as he freezes]
"…I better be the final boyfriend. I swear to God." He grumbles and your heart melts a little.
"You are, honey. You're the last one." You stand, leaning in to kiss him softly.
"Damn right I am. Put that in the caption. Tattoo it on your forehead. I will not be dethroned by some stupid trend." He huffs, but doesn't hesitate to recieve your affection.
TIM DRAKE
[You're leaning against the headboard, Tim resting his face against your stomach, his arms wrapped around your waist as you hold your phone out to the side.]
"Y'all wanted him in more content, so here he is, the current boyfriend."
It takes a few second for your words to register, but when they do he lifts his head to stare at you so quickly he nearly snaps his neck.
"A, wha? ah!" He sputters, his mouth taking even longer to catch on.
"Ah, wha? Lipstick in my Valentino white bag?" You mocked and the glare he threw you was mutinous.
"You're such a bitch."
You raise a brow, "Oh, so we're updating that status to ex-boyfriend?"
"You wouldn't." When you simply stare at him, his face drops a little. tone turning more uncertain, "...would you?"
You let the charade continue for a few more seconds before his deadly puppy eyes do you in and you drop a kiss to his forehead.
"No, baby. Never."
With your confirmation that no, you weren't breaking up with him, the brattiness abruptly returns.
"Ha, knew you didn't have the balls to leave me." He crows, and you roll your eyes, shoving him off you and consequently the bed when he tries to snuggle back into you.
STEPHANIE BROWN
[The video starts selfie style, with you standing behind Steph, still dressed in her fuzzy hello kitty pyjamas, as she pours herself a bowl of cereal.]
"So, here she is, the current girlfriend."
[Stephanie freezes mid-bite, turning to look at the camera in sheer disbelief]
"…Current?" You try not to laugh at her reaction but a few giggles slip out and Steph launches into a tirade.
"CURRENT?! Like I’m a seasonal limited-time offer?! Babe, what is this, a McRib romance?!"
"Would you prefer ‘temporary live-in menace with nice legs’?" you tease.
"Okay first of all, accurate. Second of all, current?! Babe, I’ve already picked our wedding colors. I’ve named our hypothetical cats! I have a whole pinterest board dedicated to our future life together!"
"Steph—"
"CURRENT?!? I'll kick you in the fucking head!" She grouses, forgetting her cereal as she storms off in a dramatic huff.
CASSANDRA CAIN
[You and Cass are cuddled together on the couch surrounded by fluffy pillows and blankets. She smiles softly and leans into your side when she notices the camera.]
"Date night with with my current girlfriend."
You feel the way she stiffens against you and instantly regret your words. The TikTok long forgotten, as you turn your full attention to your girlfriend.
"Hey, love, I didn’t mean it like that. It's a stupid TikTok trend. You’re not just some current flavour of the month, you’re my person. Always."
[Cass blinks, the tiniest smile breaking through her usually serious expression. She reaches out and squeezes your hands softly, before pulling back to sign an "I love you"]
You beam, leaning your forehead against hers, you're stomach erupting into butterflies as you thought about the ring you had hidden inside your pillow.
KYLE RAYNER
[Kyle sits across from you, paintbrush in his hand as he focuses intently on the canvas in front of him.]
"Painting the cats with my current boyfriend, look at him go!" You laughed as he looked up at you with a dopily in love grin, before he registers what you've just said.
"Wait. Current Boyfriend?" His brow furrowed as he put down his brush. "Current boyfriend cause we're gonna get married and then I'll be your husband right? Right?"
He looks like a kicked puppy and you stand, moving around to slide into his lap.
[The phone's discarded on the table but it still records the conversation]
"Yeah, baby, we'll get married." You hum, hokking your arms around his neck.
"Oh, that's good, should I go and get the ring I bought a few months ago then?"
"Kyle?!"
HAL JORDAN
[You’re walking through your apartment, filming, Hal is in the kitchen wearing sweats and an obnoxious tank top that says 'welcome to the gun show.' He's making pancakes while humming something off-key.]
"Fit check with my current boyfriend!"
Hal smirks, turning to face the camera.
"Damn right. Look at this—pilot, sexy, short stack master... wait." He squinted, analysing your previous sentence. "Hold on. Back up. Current?"
[You try to keep the camera steady as he turns around fully, eyes squinting like you just told him Batman’s funnier than he is.]
"Current boyfriend?? Excuse me?? I—I live with you. We have two cats together, is that what you're telling our sons I am?"
You practically howl with laughter at his meltdown, "It’s just a trend!"
But it's like he doesn't even hear you, too busy on his warpath. "I fixed the leaky faucet. That’s not ‘current boyfriend’ behavior, that’s husband energy."
[He points dramatically at the pancakes sizzling in the pan.]
"That right there? That’s commitment. That’s ‘I’ll be there in your 80s cutting your meds into quarters’ energy."
[The camera cuts to show you sitting with your face resting against your palm as Hal continues to pace in the background, widly gesticualting.]
"Just a current boyfriend... The betrayal..."
WALLY WEST
[You're sitting on the couch, flipping the camera to show off an unsupecting Wally sitting cross legged on the carpet as he works on constructing the $1000 Lego Millenium Falcon you'd gifted him.]
"Y'all look what a nerd my current boyfriend is."
[Wally pauses. His head turns slowly like a confused golden retriever.]
"...Current?...Current?! Babe. Babe. What do you mean current? Did I miss a breakup?! Are you firing me?! I just bought us matching toothbrushes!”
"Well, technically you are the current one." You tease.
"That makes it sound like there could be a next one! You think you can upgrade from this?" He runs a hand down his body. "Limited edition! No returns!"
"You're right. Nobody wants to take the model back anyway." You snort.
[He clutches his chest like he's been shot, fake-sobbing as he collapses against the carpet.]
"We made a spreadsheet for potential baby names just for fun! What about Wallace junior huh?"
"No child of mine will be named Wallace." You deadpan, humour momentarily forgotten until he suddenly crawls toward you, making it impossible not to laugh.
[He buries his face into your lap, and you burst out laughing, pulling him into a hug while he dramatically clings to you like dead weight.]
Love your writing! It's a bit heavy so no worries if you don't want to but I was wondering how the batboys™️ would react to the reader refusing to accept money from them even in a financial emergency because they're afraid of taking advantage of the fact their partner is rich asf (I'm a sucker for ✨polite✨ angst)
BATBOYS BUT THEY'RE DATING A POOR!F!READER WHO REFUSES TO TELL THEM AND ACCEPT THEIR HELP.
★ TAGS: older!damian wayne, older!duke thomas, angst, not poly, hurt/comfort, jason before he reformed, mentions of violence (not towards reader), small panic attack (not described in detail), anxiety, lots of comforting and love, it hurts them to see you struggle :(((
★ A/N: first ask, omg!! thank you for coming to save me 💞💞💞 i love angst, you are doing me a favour by requesting it, not to worry!! hope this is good enough <333 oh, and quick notice, but this is not at all meant to romanticise the situation depicted, please remember that not having much money is a real struggle that people go through and this work does not aim to diminish it
★ W/C: 3.5k (why is this so long—)
The paper on your door stares back at you blankly—no sympathy in its gaze, and certainly no mercy in its letters, all uppercase and practically shouting at you:
EVICTION NOTICE.
You're sure the thud of your bag hitting the ground can be heard from multiple stories both above and below, but in that moment, staring at those two words with static ringing in your ears and the world closing in around you, it's hard to really care.
You think you spend a while standing there, just glaring at the door with no real thought behind your eyes, no real drive to your actions, just this void swallowing you whole.
It's almost hard to believe that just this morning, you were laughing and shoving the shoulder of your boyfriend as he teased you about something you can't even bother to remember. That just this morning, you were beaming and bright and shining all over as you joked without a care in the world.
And now...
Now this.
A light gasp coming from beside you snaps you out of your daze, tired eyes landing on a pair swimming in so much sympathy and pity that it makes you sick to your stomach, and before you even know it, the echo of your door slamming shut rings clear through the hall, paper all but gone from its wooden surface.
The next few days are a blur, spent either packing, or curled up in your bed with dry, crusty streaks coating your cheeks and a phone laying forgotten by your bedside table, arms too weak to pick it up and brain too tired to bother even trying.
This whole thing just came so fast, too fast, that you couldn't even bring yourself to keep the one thing you spent years trying to hide from your lover a secret anymore, not responding to his texts or calls to the point he shows up knocking at your door, and when you open it, his eyes aren't on you, but glued down.
Glued onto the piece of paper in his hands.
You take a second to quickly glance at your door, spotting another tape situated on it.
That motherfucker put up another notice.
Jaw clenched, you turn back to your boyfriend.
-> DICK GRAYSON <-
"Y'know..." he starts, tone soft with a hint of his usual playfulness, but, you notice, significantly watered down this time, "when I said you can come to me for anything, I meant it."
You part your lips to respond, but can't quite bring yourself to let any words actually escape, just like Dick can't seem to bring himself to lift his head up and meet your gaze.
(He doesn't because he feels like he failed you, staring at those two words without registering anything else as he wonders just how long this has been going on for, just how long has his girlfriend been suffering, while he sat there basking in riches and wealth?)
"I can help," he spits out almost too soon, almost too desperate, "I can wire you the money, pay off the—"
"No."
His head shoots up.
"No..?" he echoes, shoulders dropping and form all but kicked puppy. "What do you mean 'no'?"
"I mean: no, Dick."
Your hand goes up, fingers pinching your nose and head shaking from side-to-side as you curse yourself for not even bothering to answer at least one text.
For even showing him where you live in the first place, really.
"Why not?"
"Because," you force out, the word tasting bitter on your tongue, "I refuse to do that to you."
"Do what to me?"
"That," you hiss, gesturing in front of you as though what you're talking about is actually, physically there. "The asking for money, the begging for funds—God, Dick, I can't. I can't take advantage of you like that. That's not why I dated you."
"Dated?" Dick stares at you, brows knitted and eyes pouring out all the hurt siphoned by his voice.
"That's..." you trail off, shaking your head. "That came out wrong."
Your lips pull down, eyes glazing over before he catches your hands and refocuses your hazy pools towards him.
"Hey," he calls, soft and sweet. "You know you wouldn't be taking advantage of me, right?"
You scoff, and immediately, he lifts a hand up to cup your chin, coaxing your averted eyes back to him.
"I mean it," he says, firmer, "I'm your boyfriend. Your partner. I'm here to help. Money or otherwise."
"I can't, Dick. I can't."
With a tug, you crash into him, hands planted firmly on his chest as his arms curl around you, the warmth like a hammer to your shell, a crack in your dam, and before you even know it, the tears that were glistening in your eyes just moments ago start to spill over.
Dick's arms secure you, grip not faltering even while you soak his shirt in your ugly tears and snot, even while you squeeze it tight enough to dig into his chest through the fabric, even while you admit to lying to him for years about a situation that pains him so.
"Stay with me for a while."
"Huh?" You sniff.
"You said you won't accept my money," he continues, and you crane your neck to find him already looking down at you, "so accept my hospitality instead."
"Dick..."
"Just until you can get back onto your feet again," he pleads. "Just let me help until you can get back up on your own."
"I..."
"Please, [Name], I can't let you live on the streets. I can't."
And he means it, staring at you with such heartbreak, the sob you've worked so hard to keep down climbs back up your throat, sending you crashing straight back into his chest.
And as you stand there, his arms around you and his nose buried in your hair, you think to yourself that, just this once, you'll allow yourself to reach out.
-> JASON TODD <-
"Always fucking hated that prick," he growls out, voice all sharp edges and nasty scowls. "He looks at you like you're some piece of meat and not an actual fucking human being."
"Yeah... I hate him too."
Jason's eyes flit up, gaze narrow and lips taut. "Then why the fuck did you never tell me about this?"
You purse your own lips, words lost on your tongue—
"I can kill him."
—until he says something like that, of course.
"What?" you can't help but scoff out, incredulous. "Jason, no."
The paper scrunches in his hands, bunching up like some petty inconvenience rather than the words that have quite literally decided your living situation for the next who-knows-how-long.
"Why the hell not?"
"Wha—? Are you hearing yourself right now?"
When he only lifts a brow in response, you try for a different approach.
"I thought you only killed criminals."
"He looks at you like a criminal," he quips back, sharp and quick. "That's enough."
"No. You are not killing someone just because I didn't pay my fucking rent on time."
You cross your arms over your chest, stance firm, rigid, as stubborn as your will as you eye him down with a look that promises consequence should he choose not to listen.
A beat passes without a word.
Then—
"Fine." His shoulders fall with a grunt, but the topic doesn't fall alongside them. "If you won't let me kill him, then I'll just pay for your new apartment instead."
"No. No way."
His eyes narrow. "I wasn't asking."
You return the look. "Neither was I."
The moment stretches, the two of you glaring at each other with steely gazes and tight jaws, each equally as unyielding as the other.
(Jason thinks to himself that your glare isn't as fierce as usual. Like it's lacking something. A will. A drive. A reason to continue pushing forward. When did his girlfriend start to look so tired?)
His gaze softens. "Doll..."
Just like that, like his look is made up of some sort of soothing magic, your shoulders fall, and he catches you before you can go spiralling in a pool of your own thoughts.
"What's wrong?"
"I can't do that to you, Jay." You shake your head into his chest, voice all but muffled. "I can't use you like that. Not you."
"You wouldn't be using me, [Name]."
"Yes, I would," you grit out, squinting your eyes shut to force the sting away. "I would..."
He goes to respond, but you beat him to it.
"You've already had to go from having everything to having nothing before." You heave a breath, chest tightening with the effort of holding that damn salty water back. "And now that you've got it back... I can't take that from you."
"You wouldn't be taking it from me, [Name]."
You go to echo your response before, but it's his turn to beat you to talking.
"No, you wouldn't." You can feel him shake his head above yours. "I choose how I spend that money, doll. It's my decision. And if I choose to spend it on you, then it'll be spent on you. There is no using one another. I love you."
Your breath hitches, head shooting up to find his own already facing you, and his eyes are are so soft, so sincere, that you can't help the sob that lurches from your throat, arms looping around his neck and pulling him down until his lips slot perfectly against yours.
And as he stands there, kissing you even through all the salty water that coats your lips, you yield just a little more to the idea of getting some help from someone you love.
-> TIM DRAKE <-
"So that's why you weren't answering any of my texts." He lets out a chuckle, but it comes out dry and insincere.
(He stares at the page. All of a sudden, it all makes sense. The refusal to eat at places that aren't small cafes or local diners, the avoidance of high-spending activities like shopping at the mall or going to theme parks, the amount of dates spent just streaming movies at yours or walking around the same park a dozen times over. How did he not see before? How can he call himself a detective and not notice his own girlfriend's struggling financial situation?)
"Sorry..." You go to hug one arm, voice small and gaze smaller.
"Y'know you could've told me, right?" He glances up, brows knitted and tone soft, reassuring. "You can tell me anything."
"I know."
"Then why didn't you?"
You look up and wince, Tim's defeated expression stirring something within you, something small but no less significant than all your other emotions.
"You already have so much on your plate," you start, averting your gaze because the look in his eyes is just too much to handle. "I didn't wanna worry you."
"I'm always worried about you," he responds simply, "I'm worried about whether or not you get home safe. I'm worried about whether or not you ate, or got enough sleep. I'm worried that some day, somehow, you'll grow bored and leave me. I worry all the time.
"It's how I show I care."
"I know that..." you trail off.
"Then you also know that giving me one more thing to worry about wouldn't make much of a difference."
You stay quiet, and so Tim sighs, carefully going to reach for your hands and cup them with just gentle enough of a hold to give you room to pull away should you choose to.
You don't, of course.
"You know you don't have to go through this alone." Tim's thumbs rub gentle circles over your knuckles, his voice a grounding source that anchors you, keeps you from straying too far into the ocean. "I'm here for you, always."
He's always been good at that. Being there for you. Comforting you. Of all his brothers, Tim is probably the most emotionally aware. The most painfully empathetic. It's so easy to yield when he's the one talking to you.
It's why you kept it a secret in the first place. You knew you'd fold so easily the second he confronts you.
So you plead, "Please, Tim."
His brows knit.
"Don't do this. I can... I can fix this myself."
His lips pull down. "You know you can't."
You want to defend yourself, to tell him he's wrong, you can, but your lips wobble, and a lump blocks your throat, and your eyes just start to shake like a breaking water tank threatening to spill all its contents.
And Tim sees it all.
"Tell you what," he starts lightly, soothingly, "I'll help pay for a new apartment and keep track of how much. Then, when you earn enough, you can pay it all back. You won't be using me. It'll be like a loan."
He knew your reservations before you even told him them. Of course he did. He's Tim. Your Tim. Your sweet, kind, loving Tim.
"I don't deserve you," you say, and you mean it, so he pulls you into his arms and rests his chin on your head, rubbing up and down your arms in that way that just releases all tension from your shoulders.
And as you both stand there together, the only sound being your silent sobs against his skin, you think you can just about get behind this compromise.
-> DUKE THOMAS <-
He whispers your name, soft, betrayed, with a look about the eye that almost cracks your heart in two.
"Why didn't you say anything..?" he asks, and his gaze is all blue, all rain showers and stormy clouds. "Why didn't you tell me you were still struggling with money?"
When you don't respond, he chooses to continue.
"I thought we told each other everything. Ride or die, remember? We—we've been through it all, haven't we..?"
You wait for a beat to pass before finally saying something.
"You... you just looked so happy lately. For a while now, actually. Ever since the Waynes took you in...
"I—I didn't wanna ruin that."
Duke goes quiet.
(In his mind, he's wondering where he went wrong, where on earth you got the idea that his happiness trumps your own, that you weren't both in this together. Did he... did he somehow do something to make you feel that way..?)
A quiet settles over the two of you, a sombre atmosphere that even the most classical of musicians couldn't put into notes, that even the most tragic of tales couldn't spin into words.
In that moment, for the first time since both you and Duke were little, the silence is static, no understanding or connection cutting through, no seemingly telepathic words jumping from one mind to the other, just a void, empty feeling that holds you hostage and threatens your very relationship.
"Duke—"
"Let me help," he cuts you off. Then he lifts his head, and his eyes are narrowed, determined.
"Huh?"
"Let me help you. I can. I have the money now," he says with a will, like he knows his words will come true, like he's so sure he'll be able to do this for you.
"No," you shoot him down, "I can't do that to you."
"Do what?" he scoffs out, arms folding over his chest. "Accept my help?"
"Accept your money," you correct him, and almost as soon as you do, he loses the hard look, settling for something softer instead—gentle. "I can't use you like that."
"[Name]. Don't you think I know that?"
You raise a brow.
"How you feel right now: don't you think I know it?"
You purse your lips, and he keeps going.
"Did you forget already who I was before this..? Did our time together mean that little to you..?"
The accusation is enough to make your eyes widen, words tumbling out your mouth so fast, you can't even second-guess them.
"No, no of course not!"
"[Name]." He shakes his head, pulling you into his arms. "I know what it's like to feel like you're using someone for money. Fuck, I know better than anyone else." His brows scrunch, expression looking pained for a second before steeling once more. "That's why it took me so long to even accept Bruce's offer."
You rest your hands gently against his chest, and then also let your head rest against his own, those brown swirls drowning you.
"So trust me when I say that this isn't you taking advantage of me, or using me for money," he whispers softly. "It's you accepting my help. It's you letting me in."
You blink, lashes growing wet.
"You could never be a burden to me. Ride or die, remember?"
You do. You do remember.
God, you remember it all.
And as he holds you close, as he rests his head against your own in your once again, shared silence, you're sure you'll remember it for the rest of time.
-> DAMIAN WAYNE <-
"Tt. I'll have Pennyworth hire a moving agency and wire you enough money so that this is never a problem again."
Your eyes blow wide, brows shooting straight up to your head, and mouth opening to protest like your life depends on it.
But Damian is already moving away.
In fact, he's already got his phone out, finger swiping away at it with a speed that could rival the Flash himself as he takes step after step down the hall.
So you bound straight after him.
"No! Wait, Damian, wait!"
He stops, your hands planted firm on his chest as you take a moment to catch your breath, the lack of movement you've been doing the past few days making just that short sprint feel like too much.
Fucking hell.
Your chin is tilted up.
"Have you been crying?"
You flinch. "No..."
His fingers trace your cheeks, right over the crusty streaks you know are there, and you wince as you're reminded of just how filthy you must appear in front of him.
"You have," he observes, moving your head from side-to-side gently, "You haven't been eating either."
You purse your lips, choosing not to respond lest you risk another observation that will shake you to your core.
"Beloved"—there he goes again with that petname. The one your heart lurches in your throat for—"you haven't been caring for yourself."
(When?—he wonders—when did you stop partaking in the act of caring for your own health? And why did you not think to come to him, your boyfriend, for help in doing so?)
"I..."
His fingers leave your chin, and you almost drop it to chase the feeling of them before catching yourself and quickly withdrawing.
God, just how touch-starved are you?
"It seems as though I'll need to ask for a larger amount to be wired through than I initially thought."
Once more, you find your eyes turning into saucers.
"No!"
He raises a brow.
"No," you repeat, quieter, but still just as sure, "Damian don't, please."
"Why not?"
"Because"—you think you're shaking, but there's no breeze in the hall, and it's nowhere near winter—"I... I can't take your money like that."
"It's not my money," he responds simply, logically, "it's my father's."
"I know. And I can't use you to get to his money."
"Technically speaking," Damian starts, his head tilting ever so slightly to the side and his lips still the straight line that they were just moments ago, "it's not even my father's money, it's his parents', and both are deceased, so I see no problem in taking it."
When he goes to add more, he stops abruptly, brows furrowing, and for the first time since appearing at your door, lips pulling down.
"Beloved, you're shaking."
"I can't stop..." you whisper, and perhaps it's quiet enough for him not to hear, but you don't even think you're saying it to him. "I can't stop."
"Habibti." He gently squeezes your arms, and your pupils dart up. "Copy me."
His chest rises and falls. His breathing. Copy his breathing.
He means copy his breathing.
So you do.
When his chest rises, so too does yours. And when it falls, yours falls straight after.
It takes a couple of tries before you're in complete sync. But once you are, once you've finally matched the pace of your boyfriend, the ringing in your ears dies down, and the world around you starts to clear up again. You start to feel real again.
"Better?"
You hum.
He pulls you into his arms.
And your eyes flutter shut.
"Rest assured, if you don't wish me to this much, I will not wire you the money," he finally speaks after a long while of standing there with you in his arms, "but I will find a way to get you out of this situation through other means. Even if those means cost me everything."
And as you stand there, the warmth of his presence blanketing your form, hiding you from the world, you let yourself quietly sink into the comfort of his words.
JASON TODD thinks he doesn’t know how to love, but…
a/n: I missed writing for my man!! Also, thank you for 600 followers I can't even begin to explain how sweet and welcoming this Tumblr community has been, I love u all!
cw: mentions of sex, fluff, fem!reader
Jason Todd thinks he doesn’t know how to love, but when it's late at night and you're tired he'll undress you and take your make up off with gentle but clumsy hands. His eyes glued to your face like his life depended on it, like he needs to memorize it, engrave it in the back of his brain before you go away.
He thinks he doesn't know how to love but he never lets you walk on the side of the pavement closest to the road, always keeping a steady hand at your waist.
Jason Todd thinks he doesn't know how to love because he can't bring himself to say the words out loud, they catch in his throat, get jumbled up into a ball and come out weird. He fears if he says it out loud the spell will break, the bubble will burst, and you'll see something you won't like in him.
He makes up for it by showing you how much he loves you.
He memorizes your coffee order, knows exactly how cold it has to be before you ask for his jacket, and he gives it to you before you can even notice the discomfort; he knows each and every expression you make, can feel your gaze on him from the other side of the room, warm like a blanket, holding him tight like a boa constrictor, taking his breath away.
He thinks because he isn't saying it you won't notice, but you do. You notice how there's always flowers and coffee in his hands when he comes home too late in the morning, apologetic smile on his lips and a purple bruise blooming on his jawline.
You notice how the ac always works, no longer stops in the hottest days of the year, how the sink is no longer dripping in that constant manner, how you never register that you're feeling cold before he carefully drapes his jacket over your shoulders.
"Should've brought yours, told you it'd be cold, ma." He'd mumble, the twitching of his lips and the glint in his eyes betraying his annoyed expression.
Jason Todd thinks he doesn’t know how to love because he's surly and standoffish, sort of like a cat. His physical affection comes slowly at first, he tests the waters, proves to himself that you want to touch him as much as he wants to touch you. An arm slung over the back of a couch, fingers grazing your shoulders, the back of your neck; or maybe a hand on your thigh in the car, his eyes on the road but his mind on you, heart beating so fast he could have sworn you heard it.
His touch comes hand in hand with his trust, and once he's assessed you can be trusted his hands are on you constantly, eyes wide and filled with love as he looks up at you from in between your thighs, presses kisses up your legs and down your stomach.
He thinks he doesn't know how to love, but he touches you like you're holy, like you're made to be worshipped. He is enthralled by the way you pant when he's knuckles deep inside you, the way you arch your back and let out whiny breaths and broken moans, the way you call his name like a siren.
Jason Todd thinks he doesn’t know how to love because he's clumsy, tripping over his own two feet for his girl, but he doesn't know that's what love is about. It's the clumsiness, the blushing cheeks and brushing hands, the kisses with too much teeth and drool, the awkwardness, the 'lights on or off?' conversations.
Jason Todd thinks he doesn’t know how to love but you know better.
⤷ like he doesn’t even KNOW he’s in love until someone (probably dick tbh) is like “you know you’re in love right?” and he’s like ????? no i’m not ??? i just care if they’ve eaten and sleep better when they’re around and want to hold their hand until my fingers fall off and think about them when i’m shot. normal
⤷ genuinely forgets to text back but also will fight god if you don’t text him back. but if he does end up texting back ....well. lmao. he texts like a dad. full stops. no emojis. except that one skull he keeps using wrong. he’ll go “that’s funny 💀” after telling you his ribs are broken.
⤷ he’s gruff. sarcastic. blunt. but like. his eyes go soft around you. you could say “i burnt the eggs again” and he’d be like “no u didn’t. they’re just crispy. rustic.” like yes king lie for me
⤷ he gets defensive. like. you mention someone flirting with you and he’s like “who? name? social security number?” and you’re like jason no. and he’s like jason yes
⤷ keeps so many pictures of you on his phone but they’re all like. blurry. low quality. you in his hoodie. your wrist holding a drink. the back of your head. a corner of your mouth. you're not even posing. you're just there
⤷ he doesn’t do pet names. not really. but you get "ma" or “sweetheart” when he’s worried. “doll” when he’s smug. “babe” when he’s teasing. and when he says “hey” in that soft voice when he’s holding you like you’ll disappear. god
⤷ jason’s idea of flirting is bullying. you’ll be like “do i look cute?” and he’s like “you look annoying.” but then he tucks your hair behind your ear with that look in his eyes...that makes u wanna have his babies.
⤷ he says “be safe” like a command (it lwk its..) it’s not “bye,” it’s “text me when you get home.” it’s “call me if anything happens.” if you forget?? he gets quiet. like “i wasn’t worried, i was just… gonna track your phone and kick someone’s ass. anyway.”
⤷ jason's way of saying “i miss you.” is: “you eat today?” he says “your hoodie still smells like you.” he says “my bed’s cold. you suck.” SAME THING.
⤷ won’t take medicine for a cold but will force you to drink electrolytes when you sneeze once. hypocrisy king.
⤷ you accidentally called him “baby” in front of bruce once and he almost died. like. turned into a sick victorian child and needed to lie down
⤷ he’s got a sixth sense for when you’re upset. even if you fake a smile. “you good?” “mhm.” grabs your hand “wanna talk or wanna sit in silence and I hold you?” jason todd you absolute angel beast
⤷ once you started staying over more often, he cleared out a drawer for you. then a shelf. then a toothbrush. he didn’t say anything. you just noticed. he’s making space for you in his life without words
⤷ forehead kisses. shoulder kisses. hand kisses. !!!!!!!!!!
⤷ you come home to him cooking shirtless in the kitchen. tragically dangerous. stupidly hot. there’s a gun next to the garlic bread and he doesn’t see the problem
⤷ sometimes when you laugh too hard, he just stares at you. like it physically hurts how much he loves you.
⤷and when you call him yours?? game over. he acts all cool but inside he’s doing emotional cartwheels. “my jason.” “say that again.” you say it again. he looks down and smiles like a boy who just found his first lucky penny
⤷ he hates when you walk behind him. like don’t do that. come here. he reaches for your hand. always. even if he won’t look at you while he does
⤷ gets a little grumpy when you’re too independent. like he respects it. but he also wants you to lean on him. so badly. so he just. stands there. awkward. “you sure you don’t need help?” and you’re like no and he’s like. ok. fine. and then helps anyway
⤷ if you’re cold he will hand you his jacket but make it weird. like “ugh. take it. before you get sick. not because i like you or anything. shut up.” ok tsundere
⤷ he leaves notes. like little ones. in your bag. on your mirror. “eat something.” “lock the door.” “i love you. don’t freak out.” what do you mean don’t freak out. HELLO??.
⤷ jasons love language: acts of "you'll never know i did it" service
⤷ he’s so soft in the morning. slow voice. messy hair. sleep-drunk and clingy. you try to get up and he wraps his whole body around you like a weighted blanket “5 more minutes.” it’s been 40. he’s not letting go.
⤷ once you called him "husband" as a joke. he choked on air. dropped the glass in his hand. “you can’t just—say things like that.” you’re like “it was a joke chill—” but now he’s looking at you very seriously ... like “...would you?” ;))))). bye.
⤷ reads your books. watches your shows. listens to your music. you ask “do you like it?” and he’s like “eh. it’s ok.” but he knows all the lyrics
⤷ he tries to act unimpressed when you dress up,, “not bad.” but he’s 100% staring like a man who just got punched in the soul. and when someone else notices? he’s right behind you like “they’re taken.” “jason they were just saying i looked nice—” “taken.”
⤷ if you ever hurt yourself, even by accident, even slightly, he looks like he’s gonna cry and fight someone. probably himself. probably the air. genuinely panics. doesn’t matter if it’s a paper cut or a concussion. he’s wrapping your finger like a medic in a war movie. muttering “you gotta be more careful” while pressing a kiss to your knuckles like it’ll keep you safe next time
⤷ when he misses you he gets weird. like “i don’t miss you i’m just in a weird mood.” bro you watched our favourite movie with the captions on while holding my shirt
⤷ he brings you a snack every time he sees you. always. even if it’s just gum or those little mini muffins. if you ask why he’s like “you get cranky” ok so you love me just say that
⤷ he will pretend to hate being called baby but you know the second you whisper it he goes all soft and quiet and he’s like “shut up” but he’s literally smiling into your shoulder
⤷ jason will do this thing where he pretends he’s chill about stuff but you can see his jaw tighten when someone flirts with you,,, “you should’ve seen that guy at the bar—he was totally checking you out” grits teeth “oh. cool.” 3 minutes later: “you know i’d kill for you right?” jason... no one asked dude u cant just say stuff like that outloud in public
⤷ if you fall asleep around him?? he turns into a statue. like he will not move a single muscle. not even to breathe properly. you are sacred. must not disturb
⤷ he’s so grumpy when he’s tired but the second you touch his hair he becomes a sleepy toddler. just melts. leans into you like a big heavy cat
⤷ he’d 100% wear a stupid little bracelet you made him. like with beads and charms and the string fraying. he complains about it constantly. “this is so dumb.” take it off then??? tf.. he never takes it off.
⤷ he buys two of everything you like. one for your place. one for his. “in case you stay over.” ok lover boy
⤷ he folds your laundry without being asked. but don’t expect neat folding. it’s “i threw it into a vague pile and prayed” energy. but he does it. because he saw you were tired.
⤷ he’s a “i made you coffee but don’t say anything about it or i’ll explode” kind of in love
⤷ silent love. loud actions. that’s him. he’ll kiss you on the head and then grunt when you say thank you. you’re welcome?? no. shut up. ok
⤷ he steals your shampoo. he uses your mug. he wears your hoodie and pretends it’s accidental. he wipes your lipstick from your mouth with his thumb and then stares at it like it’s a war wound. he kisses like he’s starving. like he’s trying to feel something through you. like he’s scared he’ll forget what it means to be alive if he doesn’t kiss you now, now, now.
⤷ he keeps a picture of you in his wallet. it's folded and bent and kinda stupid. you’re not even smiling in it. you’re mid-chew. mid-sentence. he says it’s his favorite. he doesn’t show it to anyone.
⤷ dates? ok. well. if you call it that. if you count 3AM diner runs and escaping cops and bleeding together in alleyways “dates.” (jason does. jason absolutely does.) he takes you to hole-in-the-wall places only he knows. he sits in the corner seat facing the door. he shares his fries. he gives you the pickle off his burger and grumbles when you make fun of his tragic bat appetite (black coffee. ketchup. protein bar. existential dread.)
⤷ sometimes he does try. flowers. dinner. something that vaguely resembles romance. but he’s awkward with it. like he’s waiting for a bomb to go off. like he doesn’t believe it’s his. like he thinks if he blinks you’ll vanish. and you’re like “jason. it’s just a tuesday.” and he’s like “yeah. i know. but i wanted to see you smile.”
⤷ walks on the outside of the sidewalk. every time. no comment. no discussion. you move there first? he moves you back. like a puzzle piece. like you belong in his blind spot
⤷ you once called him “jaybird” in front of the batfam and dick choked. jason threw a couch cushion at you. tim still brings it up. he secretly loved it
⤷ he wants to learn you. like. really learn. your moods. your opinions on olives. your sleep schedule. memorizes the way you hum when you're reading. stores it all like evidence of god
⤷ will literally look you in the eyes and say “you’re annoying” but then sit on your bed while you get ready like a very clingy cat. like. you are annoying. but also. please never leave
⤷ bites the inside of his cheek when you cry. wants to say the perfect thing. doesn’t know how. he ends up asking you “you okay?” once. then again. then again but quieter. then again while brushing your hair out of your face. he then offers you his hoodie and muttering “do you wanna hit something or do you wanna eat something” (he's trying <//33)
⤷ lets you play with his hair. but "not because he likes it" (he does he does he does). because you like it. sits still like a big grouchy cat
⤷ also: loves when you braid his hair. won’t admit it. says “i look stupid” but doesn’t take it out. sleeps with it in. you catch him in the mirror admiring it. he’s like “shut up.” ok jason
⤷ he will not tell you what he’s doing but he will do it for you. changed your headlight. restocked your fridge. paid your fine. “don’t worry about it” like ok mafia husband 🙄🙄
⤷ v protective. like obviously. but not in a “i own you” way. more like. “if anyone hurts you i will cease to exist and so will they. not necessarily in that order”
𝓖𝐎𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐏𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐀𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐓 : ; smut headcanons for 𝐉𝐀𝐒𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐎𝐃𝐃 who yearns. or, well, jason todd who’s ovulating from yearning for you more.
𝓒ONTENTS : : yearner!jason todd. smut. foreplay mentioned. praises. ooc(?). female!reader. smut. light smut. masturbation. sweet nothings. fluff. aftercare. both are of age !! gramatical errors. yearner yearner yearner yearner yearner yearner yearner yearner yearner yearner
BOOKS — DC BOOK
REQUESTED ; SUGGESTED : : @yeoniverseee : I sent you the request on ig not here 😭 I'm sorry, boo. Okay. I need need need need need yearner! Jason Todd headcanons. Begging. Jason Todd in general is already a yearner so it's like ovulating! LMAO
ᨦ𓏲 ، ݃♟❜ : : my....... first...... time.......... writing........ smut............................... I'M NOT VERY GOOD AT THIS— I'M NOT GOOD AT IT AT AWLL SO I'M SOSOSOSO SORRY😓 also, these are HEADCANONS,, & how i see yearner!(ovulating)jason. so.. yeah.. inspired by my two works, most ardently ( mostly this. )& my love. ion think i will ever write smut again... i only wrote this bc my pretty girl was the one who requested 😭( luv u so much. ) sighs.. okay. it's fine. it's cool. && OVULATING!JASON IM SOBBING LDMAO. i made this TWO WEEKS AGO btw.. yeah.. that's how difficult writing smut is for me... so don't expect much. will do a fluff version.. bc no waayyy.. ... but i love-love hannie 😋 god my blog is not sfw anymore. & layout is once again, inspired by eli < 3
yearner!jason todd who touches you like you're a secret he never imagined he'd be able to keep. every time. slow hands. he's committing you to memory. like if he dies again, your skin will be the final thing he sees & feel
yearner!jason todd who gets hard just hearing you say his name. especially when it's soft. or needy. or when you whine while pulling him closer. like, like, it physically affects him. sometimes he bites his lip to keep himself from coming too fast.
yearner!jason todd who always, always, always, always kisses you first. regardless of how desperate he is, regardless of how quickly it begins. there's always a kiss. kisses. kiss. kisses. because to him, it isn't merely sex. it never is just sex. it's a "i missed you. i love you. i fear of losing you." kind.
yearner!jason todd who's a foreplay guy. like…like… he's making out with you for 30-ish minutes before he even considers doing anything else. thighs jammed between yours, his hands pressing up under your shirt, moaning( he moans. like come awn. ) into your mouth like you're air.
yearner!jason todd who wants to go down on you more than he wants to breathe. legit, legit, literally, literally his favorite thing. his hands on your thighs, his eyes on you, humming into you just to feel you squirm( 😛 ). he needs, needs, needs you falling apart because of him.
yearner!jason todd who never, ever, ever, hurries your clothes off. it's slow. like he's unwrapping something holy( but will be doing something unholy,, ). kissing each inch of skin as he takes them off you. whispering little sweet nothings ( well. yeah. shh. it is. he's sweet. very sweet. ) like "so fuckin' beautiful. god, ma, look at you."
yearner!jason todd cried during sex,,, he insisted it was sweat. you both knew otherwise. like. nu-uh. he came so hard he gagged on his own breath, then buried his face against your neck & sniffled. his voice cracked when he said "fuck. i didn't think i'd ever get this.” ( #yearner )
yearner!jason todd who whimpers. not grunts. whimpers.( dc mls, please normalize whimperer!jason. im tired of people saying he only scowls( who scowls during sex though… i don't read smut allat…… ), groans, grunts.. it's yearner!jason anw so yay!! okay i'll stop. ) when it's good. when he's close. when he's overwhelmed. his hips stutter & catch in breath & his hands hold on to you like you'll vanish.
yearner!jason todd who speaks so much in bed. i said it. & not cocky dirty stuff. like emotional crap. "i love you so much." "you feel like heaven." "you make me feel real." between gentle moans & curses & kissing your shoulder. ( like. i changed my mind. put a baby in me already. take that fucking condom awfff. )
yearner!jason todd when he bottoms( or well, let you take control..,, for a bit ), he stops. not because he needs to. because he needs to feel you. needs you to feel him. chest to chest. lips moving. arms trembling. "jesus christ━━baby━━i'm so fuckin' in love with you."
yearner!jason todd who gets overwhelmed. sometimes he freezes in mid sentence just to hug you. arms wrapped tight. face buried in your chest or your neck or your shoulder. grounding himself. because he still can't believe it's real. can't believe that you're real. can't believe that he's real.
yearner!jason todd who says thank you. after. during. every time. sometimes a whisper. sometimes a broken moan. "thank you. fuck. thank you. i needed this. i needed you."
yearner!jason todd who's top kinks are……….. praise, desperation, & you. he doesn’t care where, when, or how. as long as you’re there. tell him he’s good. tell him he’s perfect. he’ll lose it.
yearner!jason todd who he always finishes with his face pressed to you. in your neck. on your chest. buried between your thighs. somewhere soft. somewhere safe( yes, your cunt is very safe for him ) .
yearner!jason todd who loves watching you cum,, multiple times. because.,,, gets so hooked. hooked on your sounds, the movement of your body, the way you moan his name as if it's the only thing you know.
yearner!jason todd who's aftercare is crazy. insane. five stars. warm towels, water, checking your skin, running a bath, walking you. he won't stop unless you make him. he needs to know you're alright. that he didn't mess it up. that you're still his. “don’t think i know how to do this” my ass.
yearner!jason todd who'll l kiss each & every mark he made. each bruise, each scratch, each hickey. mumbling little sorrys( that you are convinced he doesn't mean.. but does at the same time.. like. yeah. ) & "mine" simultaneously. it's possessive, but also very, very, gentle.
yearner!jason todd who needs touch you even afterwards. clingy. messy. burried you onto his chest, or snuggling into your arms. hand in your shirt. leg between your legs. mumbled half asleep,,, "don't leave. not yet."
yearner!jason todd who masturbates to thinking about your first time all the time. not because it was sexy ( although it was ), but because it mattered. because you made a choice.& that choice is him. he'll stroke himself slow, moaning your name into his pillow, hips jerking like he's there. & kaboom. woah.
yearner!jason todd who's an absolute menace when you’re teasing. brushing against him, wearing something skimpy, straddling him casually. he gets shaky. hard. clenches his jaw. begs with his eyes before he even opens his mouth.
yearner!jason todd who's hands tremble when he's desperate. like when it's been too long, or when you kissed him too slowly, or when he's been missing you. he'll press his forehead against yours & plead, softly, "please angel, please let me have you."
yearner!jason todd who loves, loves, loves it when you ride him. looks up at you like he's beholding a god( or zimba, your choice ). mouth open. hands on your waist. little compliments with each bounce. "that's it. fuck━━look at you. you're everything."
yearner!jason todd who groans your name when he climaxes. no censorship( lol yeah no no ). loud, oh, loud, sometimes strangled. like it's being torn from his chest. like it's the last word he'll ever speak. like he's dying again but in a good way.
yearner!jason todd who keeps something of yours in his pillowcase( with permission, of course !! actually, you gave it to him ). for nights when he can’t have you. a shirt. a scarf… your underwear. bra. sweater. something that smells like you. he presses his face to it, wraps around it like he’s holding you. sometimes he’ll jerk off holding it. sometimes he just cries.
yearner!jason todd who needs it to be about love. even when it's complicated. even when he's complicated. even when you're complicated. he'll bite your shoulder & grab your hair & swear under his breath, but he always slows down to kiss you like you saved him. ( #needthat #isthisavailableonamazon #howaboutshein #maybelazada #orshoppee )
Pairing: Jason Todd x fem! Reader/ Red Hood x fem! Reader
Word count: 2.5k
Synopsis: Jason sees you unmoving on the floor, his worst fear almost brings him to the edge.
Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader (except for clothing), established relationship, lovestruck! Jason, CW food mentions, one suggestive joke, CW anxiety, CW blood and death mention, fluff!
A/N: I don't know if this trope has been done before for him but it's too perfect for Jason!
Navigation
Jason Todd Masterlist
*I don't consent to having my work translated/ published on other platforms and copy pasted on any AI software*
Jason feels lighter as he pulls his bike towards the driveway, the shared driveway that he can't wait to shovel snow off of its pavement once winter comes. He can't even fathom that he wants to do such a thing when he doesn't even like winter, or shoveling snow for that matter. But the mundanity of the act has him feeling normal, feeling like he's just another person bringing takeout to a normal home with its very normal façade, a regular door and even more regular windows. It's a…good feeling, a warm one that brings him hope for whatever the future holds.
For once he doesn't feel like the red hood in the quiet street that's filled with equally normal houses with their normal families residing inside. For once he can just be Jason Todd, not a vigilante, not a gun for hire or anything in between. There's no blood coating the soles of his boots as he steps around the freshly poured concrete that you've etched yours and his initials into and inside a crudely drawn heart. “It's tradition,” you said with a shining smile. He smiles at the sight of it, remembering how much you giggled while you drew it on the wet concrete like you're etching his and your names on a tree.
The house isn't as grandiose as the Wayne Manor, but just like the manor, it's home to him.
Jason pats for his keys, noticing the lack of weapons on his person that he's so used to that it's second nature for him to check them. He has no weapons on him, except for a small knife you've given to him as an anniversary present that you said brings out his eyes as a joke. He always brings it wherever he goes. When some people would have their loved ones pictures in their wallet, Jason has this as a reminder of you. Whenever he's nervous or worried, he runs his thumb across the leather handle, letting the small notches in it ground him. The blade never pierced flesh nor will it ever be marred by blood since it's a reminder of you. On his driveway, he's just someone who's just bringing home takeout after hauling boxes upon boxes of things into the new home.
Bruce and his brothers helped with the big move at first, but with the bat signal raised up high in downtown Gotham, they had to go before Jason could even repay their help with greasy takeout. When he tried to come with, Dick stopped him with a strong hand on his shoulder, saying that he should let them take care of the situation. For once, he's happy to oblige. He smiles at the thought of not having that sense of urgency anymore. The weight inside his stomach slowly fades in time, it weighs like a boulder, pleading for him to don the suit and rush towards the signal with his guns. But as he looks up at the starry sky, the bat signal flickers out completely— another mission accomplished. If not then Oracle would've called him for backup as a last resort. Since his phone is as silent as the street that he now lives in, he exhales shakily, fists furling and unfurling out to rid him of that awfully familiar weight.
The people of Gotham are in safe hands while he's out here with you.
Grabbing the plastic bags of warm noodles and dimsum, he fishes out the ring of keys inside his pockets. As he walks quietly on the cobblestones, the doormat that you've chosen greets him at the door. It has the cliché ‘Welcome!’ sign on it, for once he likes clichés.
After a bout of reminiscing and smiling to himself like some love sick fool, he unlocks the door with a click. Silence hangs in the foyer, the queen sized mattress is still standing against the wall, waiting to be carried upstairs. He makes a mental note to haul it upstairs lest the two of you sleep on the floor tonight.
The scent of lavender wafts around him, for sure coming from a scented candle that's lit somewhere. The smell coincides with the scent of his old books that are temporarily placed on the dinner table while the pieces of his bookshelves are still in its box. A soft smile appears on his lips at the thought of you two struggling to put it together as he crosses the shared space with silent footsteps.
“Sweetheart, I'm home.” Jason calls out in the dimly lit home. He's met with the quiet ticking of the wall clock. The lack of lights makes his skin stand on edge, especially when you always had the old apartment lit back when you two still lived downtown. And you always reply back to him the second he enters the place, always quick with a first aid kit in hand or a peck or two.
“Hey, where are you?” He asks the air as he toes off his shoes, placing them neatly beside yours. “They didn't have the chicken you wanted but they did give us extra fortune cookies.” Still nothing on your end. “Babe?”
Honing in on the faint groans of the house, he concentrates, ears twitching and picking up nothing that could involve you. There's no light clacking of your footsteps, nor your voice as you mumble a song that's stuck in your head.
“You could be upstairs,” Jason tells himself to avoid the awful biting feeling. First he'll sweep the whole downstairs, an old habit. Looking towards the kitchen, he finds it eerily empty. Save for the warming kettle that looks like you left on the stove with the fire still on. Your mug and his own are sitting beside it, the tea bags are as dry as a bone inside the ceramic. The kettle shrieks just as he places the takeout on the counter, shutting the stove off, he has an awful feeling gnawing at his chest. Worry slithering from the back of his head down to the pit of his stomach.
Jason's hand doesn't tremble as he takes the knife from his pocket, brandishing the blade as he stalks his own home. Heart pounding in his chest, rattling his ribs and blood flowing in his ears. His mind draws the worst, your blood sticking to the new couch, ichor dripping all over the walls. Then a struggle, a lamp knocked down, glass shards everywhere— a gun to your head. And your screams, yelling for him before you're shut up for good.
He fights those thoughts as he enters the living room, boxes littered around while you're nowhere in sight. The grip he has on the knife tightens, the handle digging harshly into his palm.
Just as he rounds the corner, he sees your feet sticking out from behind the couch, laying on the carpeted floors— unmoving.
Eyes widening and frantic, heart plummeting down to his stomach, his worst nightmare comes to life. Jason stands there for a moment as if he doesn't trust his own eyes, frozen at the sight. Then he inhales, waking himself back to reality, walking closer until you're in his sight.
You're curled around a couch pillow, eyes closed, body relaxed. Looking like how he left you— an oversized shirt, and a pair of comfortable sweats. There's no drop of blood on you, but that doesn't always mean you're alright. Jason kneels, a shaking hand reaching to feel for your pulse. The second his index feels the light thump of your heartbeat, he exhales loudly in relief.
“Oh thank fuck.” He almost drops his whole body on you from the sheer relief. Tucking the knife back inside his pocket, you stir in your sleep. “Gave me a fucking scare.” Whispering, he grasps your bicep gently, not waking you up, but just to feel your warmth. Making sure that his cruel mind isn't playing tricks on him again.
“Mm-hmm.” Mumbling, and as if you're sensing his presence above you, you crack an eye open. Meeting with his bright emerald eyes that seem to light up in the dim room, relief swimming in the shining embers. “Hey,” your voice crackles with sleep. “I fell asleep.”
“You did.” Chuckling breathlessly, Jason carefully cleans the gunk from the corner of your eye. You feel how clammy his palm is against your cheek, hand gravitating towards his nape, nails scratching mindlessly at the scruff. “Was the floor more comfortable than the couch?”
Craning your neck towards the plump green couch, you scrunch your nose. “I didn't want to ruin it.”
“Babe, c’mon, why did we buy it then?” He pokes your cheek, and you grab his wrist, acting like you're about to bite it as he plays tug of war with you. “We're bound to ruin it anyway.” he winks, and you pause, flustered as you pull at his finger to take a gentle bite that has him laughing.
“It looks too perfect, and the floor is nice and cold.”
“I should adjust the thermostat then.” Before he could move away, you tug at his hand, wordlessly inviting him to rest on the floor beside you. With a fond smile, he obliges.
When he lies down with a groan, you immediately turn towards him, hand grasping at his collar to pull him closer. “There, you look like you need the rest.”
“Why?” His thumb traces the side of your face. “Do I look that tired?”
Shaking your head, you fight a yawn. “No, you look like you've seen a ghost, Jay. Are you okay?”
Sniffing, Jason cups your cheek, feeling your warmth ebb through his palms. “I just thought… nothing, it's stupid.”
Your brows furrow, concern prevalent on your face. “Your hand's cold, and you're breathing heavily. It's either our house is haunted or you carried the mattress up by yourself.” Palm placed on his chest, you feel his quick heartbeat that's slowly steadying under your touch. “You don't have to tell me if you don't want to. Just tell me what to do.” Voice shrinking, you pat his heart. “Do you want me to stay like this?”
Nudging your nose with his own, Jason closes his eyes, lashes fluttering as he breathes you in. You smell like his cologne and the lavender candles you lit. You're breathing, alive and holding him gently. “Please stay.” That's all he wants.
“Okay, I'll stay.” Whispering, you move closer, chest to chest, fingers moving strands of hair from his eyes. “And whatever it is, it's not stupid.”
Humming, his lips brush along the space between your brows, then he traces down to the bridge of your nose. Kissing you softly like a fallen flower petal grazing along your skin.
Smiling through his affectionate kisses, you brush his hair away from his eyes again, giggling when the strand falls back down on his eyelids. “You need a haircut.”
Eyes half lidded, green peeking through, the corner of his lips curls into a light smile. “Do you want to do it for me?”
“Me?” You gasp out, and he throws his leg over yours, embracing you as if his arm over your waist wasn't enough. “I might ruin your hair, Jay bird. I don't trust my hand eye coordination when it comes to scissors. Especially with your nice hair, I might end up giving you a mohawk.”
“I could rock a mohawk.” You grin at the thought. “Your coordination is fine, babe.” Blowing his bangs off his face for emphasis, he draws hearts around the plush of your bare hip. “You did hit me with an encyclopedia dead on.”
“That was one time!” Mouth agape and feigning offense, you lightly smack his chest, scars peeking above the hem of his shirt. Scars that you've lovingly traced with your lips and fingers. “I thought you were a burglar! And in my defense, it was dark out, okay?”
“Yeah, yeah.” He chuckles, a palm cupping the back of your neck, placing affectionate pecks over the corner of your eye. “You got me good though, hit me right on my noggin.”
Laughing, you bite your lip at the memory. “I'm sorry, good thing you were wearing your helmet back then.”
“Yeah, good thing.” Keeping you close, his muscles relax even more, the fear that encapsulated him is just a dull ache in his stomach now.
Your knuckles brush along the curve of his jaw, the same worried look returns to your pretty face. “Jay—”
“I thought you got hurt.” Blurting it out, he frowns at the recent memory. “The house was dark and you left the kettle on. Then I saw you… and I—” inhaling, he gives you a strained smile. “I feel better now though, you don't have to worry too much.”
“Oh, Jason.” Lifting yourself up by your elbows, you gaze at him softly as he holds onto your waist like it's his lifeline. “I didn't mean to—”
“It's not your fault, that's just how my mind works I guess. Seriously, it's fine.”
Taking his hand, you place his palm right on your beating heart. “Worrying is part of my job, handsome.” You beam at him, staring fondly and leaning down to kiss the tip of his nose. “I'm sorry for leaving the kettle on. I promise to not forget next time, and I promise to keep the place lit. And then whenever I take a nap, it'll be on our too perfect couch.” He sighs, eyes gazing up at you with reverence as he nods and pulls you down towards him. “I'll try to lessen your worries.”
“Thank you,” tugging you down, he hides his face on the crook of your neck. Arms wrapped around you like a cocoon. You rest on his chest, cheek pressed right on his heart as you rub reassuring circles all over his clavicle. “I don't mind you sleeping on the floor. Your poor back might feel it though.” You can feel his smile against your skin.
Moving a smidge away, you grin at him, eyes shining with mischief. “Yeah, I might need a massage actually.”
“From me?” He raises his brows, a smirk playing on his lips. “I would but I don't trust my hand eye coordination.” Pinching your sides, he lets out a quiet laugh.
Giggling, you poke his cheek playfully. “You don't need that to give a massage though.”
“Maybe for shit massages.” The chorus of laughter echoing from the living room drenches the whole house in warmth. “Say please?”
You roll your eyes, moving down to press a brief yet saccharine kiss right on his smiling lips. “Please?”
“You really want that massage huh?” He pats your cheek, then his hand crawls to your nape, gently kneading. “Do you still want that massage even if I didn't get you your orange chicken?”
Tilting your head, you shake your head with a grin while squeezing his cheeks together. “I'd say that it's a good bargain.” You were on the floor for a second, then the next you're lifted up, legs wrapped around his hips as he carries you. “Jason!” Squeaking and grinning, you wrap your arms behind his head for leverage.
“What?” He asks innocently, mirroring your giddy smile as he brushes his lips against your cheek. “I'm going to give you that massage.” It's a ruse to get you off of the harsh floor, but you let him when his hold is much more comfortable than the floor.
“Better be a damn good massage then.” You say before you're dropped on the couch, bouncing gently as you stare up at him lovingly.
☆ PAIRING : Genderbend au – Cassian Cain x Fem Reader
☆ HEADCANON : How Would He Be When He's Obsessed?
☆ NOTES : English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!
It starts with stillness.
You didn’t notice him at first—because he didn’t want to be noticed. Cassian doesn’t speak, doesn’t make a sound. But he watches.
You were kind. Not loud. Not a threat. That’s what first made him pause. People are noise to him, always broadcasting their intent with every heartbeat and twitch. But you? You didn’t broadcast danger. You didn’t make yourself bigger. You were quiet in a way that didn’t mean violence.
So, he lingered.
He’s not supposed to get attached.
Batman said so. Oracle said so. They all said so. Cassian nods when they speak, but he doesn’t follow unless it feels right in his bones.
And you feel right.
He starts following you when he’s off patrol. Silently. No footsteps. He memorizes your routine like it’s a mission. When you laugh, he flinches. When you cry, his hands clench. He doesn’t understand either, but he feels it. He doesn’t know if it’s protectiveness or something else. But it burns.
He watches more than he should.
Through windows. Across rooftops. In your shadow like he belongs there. You never feel unsafe—because he never lets you. Any time danger comes close, it’s gone before you even notice. A man following you home? He disappears. A mugger across the street? Out cold in the alley.
You start to joke with your friends. “It’s like I’ve got a guardian angel.”
Cassian hears that. He feels that. His heart does something strange and awful and warm.
He starts leaving things for you. A lost scarf. A fixed bike chain. A cup of tea from your favorite shop on a cold morning. He watches your eyes light up. You smile. You whisper, “Thank you.”
He mouths it back, even though you can’t see him.
“...Welcome.”
He doesn’t know what to call it.
He doesn’t understand what this is. But every move you make is written on your body, and he reads it like scripture. You’re beautiful, but not in the way people usually mean. You’re good. You’re real. You walk like someone who carries her own pain and doesn’t let it harden her.
Cassian is soft around you in a way he’s never been. He wants to be near. Wants to be allowed to be near. He doesn’t know how to ask.
So he stares.
You catch him one day. Rooftop. Rain. His black suit blending into the night like he’s part of it. But he doesn’t leave. He lets you see him. For the first time. You stare at each other for a long time. You don’t run. You don’t scream. You step forward.
And Cassian... he doesn’t move. He doesn’t breathe. You speak—soft, confused, kind.
“Are you the one watching me?”
He nods. Once. Like a silent prayer.
You should be scared. But you aren’t.
After that, he’s around more.
Not close. Not yet. But close enough that you could talk if you wanted. And you do. You start talking to him, even when he doesn’t answer. You tell him about your day. About your cat. Your classes. Your fears. Your hopes. He listens like it’s sacred.
And slowly... very slowly... he starts to answer. With signs. With the barest movements. A tilt of the head. A hand lifted in answer. One night, he writes something in the dust on your windowsill.
“SAFE?”
You nod.
He taps his chest. Then yours. Then nods.
“Safe.”
Cassian doesn’t sleep. Not really.
But when he does, he dreams of you. Not in a twisted way. Not violent. Just with you. Holding your hand. Sitting beside you. He dreams about what it might be like to speak—to tell you what you mean.
He wants to be close, but he doesn’t understand how. You smell sweet. Like flowers. But he’s scared he’ll ruin that. That the same hands that kill could never touch you without staining you.
He loves you. But he doesn’t know that’s what it is. It feels like need. Like obsession. But tender. Careful.
He’s learning.
Eventually, he touches your hand.
It takes months. Maybe a year. But one day, after you patch up a cut on his arm in silence, he just... touches your hand. Light. Hesitant. And you don’t pull away.
You say, “I missed you.”
He doesn’t say anything. But his eyes are glassy. His lip trembles.
He doesn’t talk. But if he could, he’d scream I miss you even when I’m right here. I want to be near you forever. I want to be your shadow. I want to be enough for you to love me back.
Instead, he leans his forehead against your shoulder.
And you hold him.
Cassian is obsessed.
Not in a way that hurts you. In a way that worships. In a way that learns. He doesn’t know what a boyfriend is. What a partner is. What love is. But he learns for you. Slowly. Clumsily. Lovingly.
Because even though he’s been trained to kill, to move in silence, to never ask for anything—he wants you.
And when you kiss his forehead for the first time?
He cries.
Silent. Still.
But he cries.
It begins, as always, in silence.
He is on your balcony again—half in shadow, half soaked in moonlight. The wind plays with the hem of his black cloak, but his body is still. That same tilt of the head when he watches you like you’re the only thing in the world that makes sense.
You never flinch anymore.
You don’t look surprised.
You open the window like it’s the most normal thing in the world and smile.
“Hey, angel,” you whisper.
And God—if he had a heart that worked like anyone else’s, it might stop.
He doesn’t understand why you call him that.
He doesn’t look like an angel. He’s bloodied most nights. His knuckles are bruised, dried cuts line his jaw. His hands, no matter how much he washes them, remember violence. Remember pain.
But when you say it—“angel”—your eyes go soft. Your smile goes tender.
“Mine,” you sometimes say, brushing back a strand of his hair. “My shadow. My angel.”
And he leans into your touch like it’s air, like it’s light, like it’s grace.
He still doesn’t talk. You’ve stopped expecting him to. You’ve learned his silence has weight, has texture. It’s how he tells you things.
Sometimes, he brings gifts. Not flowers or chocolates—he wouldn’t even know where to buy them. No, he brings you buttons. Trinkets. A ribbon from someone who bothered you. A feather from a rare bird. A kitten once, curled in his coat, half-dead. You cried when you held it. He just stared at you the whole time.
The kitten sleeps in your bed now. You named her Moon.
You whispered, “She’s like you. Quiet. Soft when she wants to be. But deadly.”
Cassian tilted his head. Then nodded.
He doesn’t know what school is.
You were talking once—rambling about your day while cleaning his cuts, your voice low and casual.
“Class was boring today,” you said, wiping at the gash on his shoulder. “Professor wouldn't stop talking about stupid wars—like, who cares how Napoleon died?”
You expected the usual blank silence.
Instead, he looked at you. Blinked.
Then lifted one hand. Tilted it side to side. Question.
“What?” you asked, laughing. “You don’t know who Napoleon is?”
He tilted his head again. Shrugged.
“Wait… Do you know what school is?”
Nothing. No reaction.
You stopped everything. Looked him in the eyes. “…do you know how to read?”
He looked down. Then slowly, pulled something from his belt. A folded, dirty slip of paper. It had a single word written in his jagged, childlike handwriting.
SAFE.
Your chest ached. You looked at him and saw not a vigilante, not a ghost in the night, not even a weapon.
You saw a boy.
Someone who’d never been given a childhood.
Someone who knew how to kill but not how to write his name.
You touched his hand, gentle. Like always.
“Do you want me to teach you?”
He blinked. Then nodded. Not once. Not sharp.
Slow. Like the word mattered. Like you mattered.
You start with his palm.
You don’t use pens or paper at first. No pressure. No rules. Just touch.
You trace letters into his skin with your fingertip. His hand twitches every time. He’s not used to gentleness lasting this long.
“This is A,” you whisper, dragging your finger down, then across. “Now B…”
He watches your lips when you speak. Like they hold truth.
Like he can taste knowledge just by watching you.
You guide his hand next. Hold his finger. Drag it across your open palm to form shaky letters.
He frowns when he messes up. You kiss his brow and say, “It’s okay. Try again.”
You’ve never seen him so focused. Not even in a fight.
You make flashcards next.
Simple words. Safe. Home. Name. Yours. Mine.
He stares at “Mine” for a long time.
He taps it. Then points at himself. Then at you. Then signs you with the softest hand against his heart.
Your breath catches.
He mouths something. It’s silent. You can’t hear it. But you know.
Mine.
You don’t correct him.
Your balcony becomes a classroom.
Every night, you sit with your legs crossed, flashcards in hand, and he crouches next to you like a child soaking up your light. You tell him stories—your childhood, your friends, what your teachers are like, how you used to be scared of the dark until now.
“Not anymore,” you murmur, glancing at him. “Because now I have you.”
He doesn’t smile. But he closes his eyes like your words are warmth.
One night, you wake up and find something under your pillow. A folded paper. On it, in shaky writing:
“You = Safe”
“Me = Angel”
“Mine”
You keep it in your diary.
You still haven’t kissed him. You don’t touch him unless he touches you first. You don’t ask him to stay, but you never ask him to leave. He’s not your boyfriend. He wouldn’t understand the word. But you’ve never felt more seen.
He’s learning. And every time he writes something new, he brings it to you like a child bringing a drawing to their favorite person in the world. And every time, you say the same thing:
“Perfect.”
Because to you, he is.
Cassian doesn’t understand the world.
But he understands you.
And that’s all he’s ever needed.
To watch you, to learn you, to protect you like something sacred.
He may never say it aloud.
But every step he takes, every breath he draws near you, every clumsy letter he writes in your palm—
Whispers it.
I am yours.
It happens slowly. Like dusk bleeding into night.
No lightning moment. No dramatic turning point.
Just quiet devotion blooming into something deeper.
Cassian is still silent. Still follows you in the shadows like your personal moon. Still crouches on your balcony, waiting for a look, a touch, a word from you to exist again.
But something’s shifted. You feel it.
Maybe it’s in the way he lingers longer now. Or how he watches your lips not just to learn—but to memorize. Maybe it’s in the way he holds onto every scrap of paper you write on, like holy relics, like prayers.
He started sleeping curled up by your window once. You found him there at 3AM, arm wrapped around the kitten. Shirt torn. Blood dried on his cheek.
You ran to him. He didn’t flinch.
He opened his eyes—and smiled.
Just barely. Just for you.
He starts practicing. Alone.
You don’t know this. He never tells you. But when you sleep, he stays near your fire escape. He stares at the flashcards you gave him, mouthing the letters, the words, again and again. His lips shape your name in the dark—like a secret prayer, like the answer to every question he’s never asked.
You = Safe.
You = Light.
You = Home.
One day, you catch him trying to write a sentence.
You don’t laugh. You don’t mock the messy letters or the misspelled words. You sit down next to him, and smile softly, like you always do.
You help him fix it. Guide his hand, one slow letter at a time.
By the end, it says:
“You are my safe.”
He stares at the page like it’s magic. Like he made something beautiful and didn’t know he could.
Your hands cradle his face. Your thumbs brush his cheeks.
“You’re learning so fast,” you whisper. “I’m so proud of you.”
His breath catches.
He wants to say something.
It rises in his throat like a scream he’s buried for years.
But nothing comes.
Not yet.
It happens on a rainy evening.
You were pacing, talking fast about something that upset you. School stress, maybe. A rude stranger. The weight of being alive that day.
Cassian stood by your window, watching. Silent. Still. But tense.
He didn’t know how to help. He only knew how to fight.
You noticed. You stopped.
“I’m okay,” you said softly, walking up to him. “I didn’t mean to make you feel like you have to fix it. Just you being here… It helps.”
You reached up, brushing back his hair with your fingers.
“My angel.”
That word again. Yours, not his.
But he wanted it.
He wanted it to be his word, too.
You turned away. He didn’t move.
Then—quietly—barely a whisper:
“…Y/N.”
You froze.
The word was broken. Heavy. Like glass under bare feet.
But it was real.
You turned.
He looked terrified. Like he’d done something wrong.
You smiled. Your eyes filled with tears.
You walked back to him slowly, hands trembling as you reached up and cupped his cheeks.
“Say it again,” you breathed.
His lips parted.
He hesitated.
Then—
“…Y/N.”
And this time, it wasn’t about the word.
It was about you.
You kissed him.
Soft. Gentle. Like a secret between only you and the night.
His hands hovered in the air before settling on your waist. He didn’t press. Didn’t move.
He just held you.
Like that was the miracle.
That night, you taught him a new word.
"Love."
He traced it in your palm again and again.
And when you fell asleep curled in his arms, he whispered it once. Into your hair. Into the quiet.
“…Love.”
He may not understand the world.
But he understands you.
And now—
He’s learning how to say it.
You still don’t know his name.
You never ask.
Not because you’re not curious—
But because you know he doesn’t know how to give it.
He doesn’t know what names are supposed to mean. He wasn’t given one with love. His name was forged in fists, shaped in silence, beaten into bone. It's not a name he wears—it’s a weight.
And yet—
He says your name like it’s sacred.
Like it’s the only sound in the universe he wants in his mouth.
Sometimes whispered into your pillow when you’re not looking.
Sometimes scrawled onto paper over and over again in shaky letters.
You find them.
Little scraps folded in your books, tucked in your drawers:
Just your name.
Written with devotion.
Childlike. Obsessive. Sweet.
You call him angel, still.
Sometimes shadow. Sometimes pretty boy in a half-teasing tone that always makes his ears pink.
One day, you ask him softly, brushing your lips across his cheek:
“…What do I call you?”
He tilts his head. Blinks slowly. Thinks hard. Like the question is in another language.
You try again.
“Do you have a name?”
His brows furrow. He shrinks a little—just a little.
You cup his cheek and whisper, “It’s okay. You don’t have to tell me.”
But then, one night, wrapped in your sheets, skin pressed to yours, after you taught him how to touch—
He gives it to you.
Not because you asked.
Because he wanted to.
Because for the first time in his life, it felt safe.
“…Cassian.”
Your breath catches.
“Cassian,” you repeat, voice warm. “That’s beautiful.”
He looks away.
“Just like everything else about you.”
And he doesn’t say anything—but his fingers curl around your wrist and his lips press to your neck, and you know he’s trying to say thank you without words.
He doesn’t know how to kiss properly.
The first time he tried to kiss you, he just pressed his forehead to yours, trembling, lost. You smiled, took his face in your hands, and showed him. Patient. Gentle. Lips brushing lips like butterfly wings. Again. And again.
He’s a fast learner.
And he’s hungry.
Not lustful—devoted. Starving to worship. To memorize every sound you make. He touches like you're a secret language he was born to learn.
Teaching him gets intimate.
You write words on his chest with your finger.
Safe. Love. You.
He trembles when your nails drag down his ribs.
You take his hand and guide it along your thigh, your collarbone, whispering body parts like vocabulary.
He mouths them in return—quietly, obediently.
“Shoulder.”
“Neck.”
“Hip.”
“…Y/N.”
“No, Cassian,” you giggle softly, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “That’s me, not a body part.”
He just stares, wide-eyed. Then kisses your shoulder in apology.
He worships you.
It’s in how he kneels between your thighs like you’re holy.
How he tugs your shirt up just to rest his cheek on your stomach.
How he breathes you in. Touches you like you’ll disappear.
He never wants to go further unless you guide him.
You do.
Slowly.
You teach him how to make love like you taught him how to speak—
With your hands. Your eyes. Your patience.
He follows every breath. Every arch. Every sound.
He writes love on your back in kisses.
One night, after, he lays there in silence, watching your fingers trace letters onto his palm again.
He mouths them carefully:
“B-e-l-o-n-g.”
And then, looking straight into your eyes—
He spells the last word:
“T-o Y-o-u.”
And you smile, pulling him close, your lips brushing his ear as you whisper:
he doesn't fall in love. not gracefully, at least. it's not gentle, it's not a slow sunrise. it’s a collision. like two stars devouring each other, or a falcon in a nosedive — sharp, precise, inevitable.
"I do not fall. I descend, and I choose where to land."
he tries so hard not to let it show. tries. but his affection leaks out in places he doesn’t expect — in the softening of his voice when he says your name, in the way he memorizes the exact number of eyelashes you have when you’re half-asleep beside him.
at first, he watches you like you’re a weakness. a vulnerability.
but then it turns into something else.
something older. something more sacred.
like the way ancient warriors prayed to the moon before battle.
and you — you are the moon.
("You must understand," he’d say, voice hoarse, "I would gut the world to keep you safe.")
he draws you. duh. but not just sketches of your face. no, he draws your hands mid-gesture. your footprints in snow. your silhouette reflected in the backseat window of the Batmobile. things you wouldn’t even notice about yourself, but he does.
he writes letters to you he never sends. not because he’s shy — please — but because they are too bare. too alive. like he’s holding out his beating heart on an altar and going, “Here. Be careful with it.”
they’re kept folded in a small leather-bound book under his mattress.
excerpts include: "You said you liked the rain. Today I stood in it for too long. I wanted to see if I could become something you'd love.""I do not believe in God. But I believe in you. I believe in your laugh. I believe in the way your hands shake when you're angry.""Mother would call this foolish. Father would call this dangerous. Grayson would smile and say it’s good for me. I don’t care what any of them think. I only care about how you said my name today, like it meant something.”
he’s not overly touchy. but when he does touch you, it’s with this unbearable reverence. like you are a piece of art behind museum glass and he’s been handed white gloves and permission to hold you anyway.
forehead kisses are his favourite.
they’re the most knight-like thing he can do.
a silent vow whispered into your skin.
jealousy? oh. dear lord. he doesn’t rage. he doesn’t throw tantrums. he just… sharpens.
his eyes go blade-cold.
his posture becomes razored still.
he’ll slip next to you, rest a hand on the small of your back, and say, “Is this one bothering you?”
(he already knows the answer. he’s just waiting for permission.)
he sends you riddles as a form of flirtation. little notes. clues. cryptic messages in your locker or slipped into your textbooks.
and they always lead to something ridiculous and beautiful like a rooftop picnic, or a pressed flower between pages, or a single sentence carved into wood:
“you are my sanctuary.”
he remembers.
every dumb little thing you ever mention.
your favorite constellation. the poem you mumbled once in your sleep. the exact shape of the scar on your knee from when you were seven.
he stores it all like it’s intel. because to him, it is. knowing you is his mission. his joy. his favourite kind of battle.
when he first says “I love you,” it’s not loud. it’s not showy. it’s not some big cinematic moment with fireworks and strings.
it’s quiet.
it’s 3:42 a.m.
your head’s on his chest. he thinks you’re asleep.
and he whispers it like a secret too holy for daylight.
"I love you. I love you. I love you."
once for the soul. once for the body. once for the heart.
just in case.
but when you say it back?
it undoes him.
he doesn’t smile. not really.
he looks… shattered. but in the best way. like a glacier cracking open at spring’s first kiss.
he stares at you like you’ve rewritten gravity.
and then — only then — does he kiss you like the world might actually be worth saving.
he has learned not to laugh too loud.
not to lean too far into softness,
because softness, to damian, has always meant danger—
the kind that drips down walls and pools beneath your feet.
(he is his mother's child, after all. and his father's.
a war-bred thing, caught somewhere between dynasty and duty.)
but sometimes—sometimes—you will catch him.
in the manor’s greenhouse, sleeves rolled up, soil smudging the corner of his jaw,
talking to a sunflower like it’s an old friend.
or crouched on the rooftop, chin tilted to the wind,
reciting The Rubaiyat under his breath as if the universe might listen:
"Ah, love! could thou and I with fate conspire / to grasp this sorry scheme of things entire..."
(he will never finish the line. it ends too tenderly. too wanting.)
after you two started dating, he started drinking his tea with two sugar cubes because you've taught him he's allowed to want sweet things in his life.
he doodles your face in the margins of his mission reports.
when you're not around, he ends up feeding that blasted stray cat you usually feed. even when it scratches him. ‘Tch. Ridiculous. I don’t know why they insist on this nonsense.’
he loves too sharply. too secretly. too much.
because damian wayne’s love is the kind that carves.
the kind that bleeds. the kind that stays tucked under his tongue like a secret oath.
he won’t say it. not with words.
but he’ll wrap your lunch with surgical precision.
he’ll threaten anyone who makes you cry.
he’ll stab a man and look you in the eye and say,
“He deserved worse.”
(but his hand will shake, later, when no one’s looking.)
You must understand—Damian’s heart is no tame thing.
Not unloved. Just feral.
A wild pulse, like the Lazarus Pit’s fire that once licked the bones of his grandfather.
He is trying. Relentlessly, quietly trying.
and on the rare nights he sleeps—properly sleeps, not half-alert with a knife under the pillow—
he dreams in the shade of your eyes, your lips, your hair, your skin
the sweetness of those foolish biscuits you bake for him. (He claims they’re “too sweet,” but always eats them in silence.) He dreams of you running through snow,
Titus at your side, his tail snapping like a banner in the winter wind.
and sometimes he wakes with a start,
fingers curled like claws into the bedsheets,
whispers of something soft still echoing in his chest,
and he thinks—
what a stupid, reckless, damned thing it is, to want.but oh, i do. i do.
